#and I said “No sounds like an abuser”

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt.18

Word Count: 28.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, suicidal ideations, manipulation, coercion, slight verbal abuse, stalking, murder, gore, pet names like kitten, honey

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia

AN: Hiii guys! Long time no see! Or should I say long time no read? Hehe. I am genuinely so sorry tho about how long this took! Had some things going on in my personal life, and everything just seemed to be falling apart. So I took a long hiatus, but I'm doing much better these days! I promise I wont disappear again without communication! I don't plan on going on another hiatus anytime soon though! Thank you all for your continued patience and interest in HWE, I genuinely have the best readers! A little tw if you have kids, this chapter gets a little intense with themes of postpartum depression. Reminder, Sylvia has no specific skintone, I just use images I think best represent the chapter in general. Imagine her and MC as you like! As I always say, enjoy lovelies!

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if he were observing something fragile, something just about to break. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At your breaking point?” His hand slid from your wrist up to your forearm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. “There must be a reason your subconscious reached out to mine.” Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—” “You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “I just want you to realize that I’m here. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “But you’re mine. You can’t run forever. It’s not good for you or her.”

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

Your eyelids felt like lead, every blink a battle against the overwhelming weight of exhaustion. The stretch of road ahead was endless, swallowed by darkness, the headlights carving out a lonely path through the thick emptiness of the night. It had been hours since you’d last stopped, hours since you’d even allowed yourself to consider resting. The fear in your chest had outweighed the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, keeping you upright, keeping you moving.

But now…now, it was getting harder.

Your body screamed for rest, your fingers stiff and aching against the wheel, your spine curled in discomfort from sitting so long. The hum of the tires on the cracked asphalt had begun to lull you, hypnotic in its monotony, and your head bobbed once, twice, before Sylvia’s sharp, desperate wail from the backseat jolted you violently awake.

You sucked in a breath, your heart pounding, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached. Your first instinct was panic—something was wrong, something had happened—before you registered the sound for what it was. Hunger. Frustration.

Just your baby girl crying for you.

"Sylvia, please, sweetheart, I know..." your voice wavered, raw from exhaustion, throat tight as you fought against the thick fog of fatigue clouding your brain. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, your gut twisting at the sight of her tiny face contorted in distress, her fists clenched tight as she wailed.

Her tiny body trembled with the force of her cries, her little chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. She didn’t understand why she was strapped down, why you weren’t holding her, why everything in her tiny world felt so loud and unfamiliar.

The sound of her suffering felt like a dagger lodged deep in your chest.

"Shhh, baby...Mommy’s here... I know, I know, I know," you whispered, reaching back blindly to shake the car seat just a little, as if the movement would somehow bring her comfort. It didn’t. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, more insistent.

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over you, stronger than before.

You hated this. You hated hearing her cry and not being able to fix it. You hated that she was suffering because of you. Because you had been reckless. Because you had been selfish.

The thought came unbidden, intrusive and cruel, and you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. No. No, you couldn’t think like that.

But what if he was closing in?

The paranoia that had driven you to keep moving, to push past every ache and pain and ounce of exhaustion, crept up your spine again. Sylus was smart. Too smart. You had made it this far, but how much longer before he caught up?

Would he be merciful?

No. Of course not. He had ruined your life, taken your mind, body, and soul. Changed you in irreparable ways. That nice guy act over the phone was bullshit. It had to be.

He had told you—over and over—that you were his. That you belonged to him. That no matter where you ran, no matter how far you went, he would always come for you.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling against the wheel as you pressed just a little harder on the gas.

You needed to keep going. You couldn’t stop.

But Sylvia’s cries weren’t letting up. They were clawing at your resolve, chipping away at it piece by piece, until it was nothing more than a fragile, fraying thread threatening to snap.

How much longer? How much longer before you completely fell apart?

Your vision blurred as tears pricked the edges of your eyes, the weight of it all—of everything—crushing you.

"I’m so sorry," you choked out, barely able to hear yourself over her wails. "I’m so, so sorry."

It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this.

Your body ached with the need to pull over, to take her in your arms and comfort her the way you were supposed to. To stop, even just for a moment, to breathe, to think.

But if you stopped now…

If you stopped now, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to start again.

You took a deep, shaky breath, forcing yourself to push back the primal, aching urge to pull over and scoop Sylvia into your arms. Your instincts screamed at you to comfort her, but fear screamed louder. Stopping meant wasting time. Stopping meant giving Sylus a chance to close in. So instead, you reached for the radio, fumbling with the old-fashioned knobs, hoping—praying—that some music might drown out her cries.

Your fingers twisted the dial, static hissing angrily in response.

Come on, come on…

You struggled to keep your eyes on the road, the lines blurring from exhaustion. Radios this old were practically relics in Linkon, outdated and replaced by sleek, voice-command technology. Were there even working radio stations outside the city? Had the rest of the world moved on, or had Linkon just left them behind?

Another turn of the knob. More static.

And then, sound.

Soft strings. A slow, haunting melody. Classical.

Your stomach dropped.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened as unwelcome memories flooded your mind, unspooling like a film reel you couldn’t turn off.

Sylus, lounging on the edge of his massive bed, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand while the other rested lazily against your waist. The dim glow of his bedroom, the scent of sandalwood and aged liquor clinging to the sheets. The way his crimson eyes would drift closed, his head tilting slightly as he listened, completely lost in the music.

"Relax, kitten," his voice, low and smooth, echoed through your thoughts, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "This should help you sleep".

You twisted the knob violently, heart hammering.

The radio shrieked with static again, Sylvia’s wails filling the gaps between the noise, clawing at your nerves.

“Come on, come on—”

The static flickered. A different station crackled through.

The familiar twang of an old country song filtered in, the singer’s voice rough yet warm. Not your usual taste. Not your preference. But it wasn’t classical. That was enough.

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders slumping as the melody filled the car.

Sylvia’s cries didn’t stop, but they softened just enough to dull the sharp edges of your panic. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I know,” you murmured, risking another glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her tiny fists flailed, her red, tear-streaked face scrunched in distress. “Just a little longer. We’ll stop soon, I promise.”

You pressed a hand to your temple, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight.

You just had to keep moving.

Thirty more minutes crawled by, and the suffocating isolation of the road was beginning to gnaw at your nerves. Nothing but dirt and desolate fields stretched endlessly on either side of you. The trees had thinned out long ago, replaced by flatlands that made you feel uncomfortably exposed. You kept checking the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights cresting the horizon at any moment—Sylus's car, or worse, one of his men.

Your fingers drummed against the wheel. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sniffle from Sylvia in the backseat. She had finally exhausted herself from crying, but you knew it was temporary. You’d have to stop soon.

Your eyes flickered to the gas meter.

Your stomach dropped.

Shit.

The needle was hovering dangerously close to empty.

You clenched your jaw, gripping the wheel tighter as you exhaled slowly through your nose. You should’ve stopped earlier. Should’ve filled up before you even left the outskirts of Brunswick. But in your haste—your desperation to put as much distance between you and Sylus as possible—you hadn’t even thought about it.

Now, you didn’t have a choice. You had to find a gas station.

And soon.

Your mind raced through the options. There had to be something out here, even if it was just a tiny, rundown station in the middle of nowhere. You scanned the road ahead, searching for any sign, any flicker of neon in the distance, but all you were met with was an endless stretch of dirt and open sky.

Another whimper from the backseat drew your attention. You glanced in the mirror.

Sylvia was stirring again, her tiny face scrunching up, little hands flailing weakly. She was getting hungrier by the second.

Your chest tightened.

You had nothing prepared. The bottles Clara had packed were in the passenger seat, but they were still cold. You needed to heat them up somehow. You needed a rest stop, a gas station, anything. The you realized enough time had passed that the formula likely wasn't safe to give her anyways.

The pressure in your skull built. Every mile that passed felt like another nail being hammered into your nerves.

The gas light flickered on.

Shit.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers clenching so hard against the steering wheel that your knuckles went white. You couldn’t break down out here. Not in the middle of nowhere. Not when Sylus was still out there, searching.

Not when you had Sylvia.

She let out a soft cry.

You inhaled sharply through your nose.

Keep it together. Keep driving. Find a station. Fast.

As if the universe had finally decided to grant you some mercy, a gas station came into view in the distance, its sign flickering weakly against the inky black sky. You nearly sighed in relief, your grip on the steering wheel tightening as you forced yourself to maintain a steady speed. The last thing you needed was to burn out the last drops of gas before you even reached the pump.

The place was rundown—long abandoned cars left at odd angles in the parking lot, their paint peeling under the weight of time. The single convenience store sat behind the pumps, its windows coated in layers of grime. The fluorescent lights above the entrance buzzed loudly, some flickering in and out like they were clinging to life. It looked like something out of an old horror movie, the kind of place you’d never stop at willingly. But right now, you didn’t have a choice.

You turned off the engine and slumped back against the seat, exhaling slowly. The sudden silence inside the car felt almost deafening after hours of listening to Sylvia’s cries. You hesitated before glancing back at her. She had finally fallen asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic motions. The tear stains on her chubby cheeks twisted something deep inside of you, a gnawing guilt that wouldn’t let go.

She had cried herself to sleep.

The thought made your throat tighten, but you swallowed it down. Right now, you needed to focus. Get gas. Find something to eat. Then feed her before she woke up screaming again. Simple steps. One thing at a time. You could do this.

You reached under the seat, rummaging around until your fingers brushed against the cool metal of Luke’s gun—except…it wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted as you patted around the floor, the glove compartment, the passenger seat, even checking beside Sylvia’s car seat just in case it had slid over. But nothing.

Shit.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, pressing your fingers to your temples. You had sworn you packed it. Had you left it at the farmhouse? Maybe in your rush, you had forgotten. Either way, it wasn’t here, and that meant you were completely defenseless.

A slow breath left your lips, your heartbeat picking up slightly. It’s fine. It has to be fine. You weren’t some helpless civilian—your training as a Deepspace Hunter wasn’t something you could just forget overnight. You had survived worse at this point. Besides, this place looked empty. Just a quick stop and then you’d be back on the road before anyone even noticed you were here.

But still…the absence of the gun made your nerves hum with unease.

You reached over and gently adjusted Sylvia’s blanket, making sure she was snug and comfortable before you grabbed the thick envelope with money and slowly opened the car door. The night air was crisp, cool against your flushed skin. A shiver ran down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the strange stillness of the place.

The wind howled softly through the empty lot, rustling stray scraps of paper and dried leaves. Other than that, it was quiet. Too quiet.

You glanced over your shoulder once more, reassuring yourself that Sylvia was still fast asleep before heading toward the pump.

Stay alert. Stay ready.

You had to be quick. Sylus could be closing in.

The lower half of your body aches as you finally swing your legs out of the car, wincing at the deep, unrelenting soreness that radiates through your hips and thighs. Three weeks postpartum, and your body is still punishing you for what it went through. Every movement feels stiff, your joints weak, your core unstable. You shouldn’t even be walking like this, let alone driving for hours on end.

Under normal circumstances, you should be at home, curled up in bed with your baby, resting and recovering in a soft nest of blankets. That’s what all the pregnancy books Sylus had given you had insisted upon—proper rest, gentle healing, quiet moments bonding with your newborn. Of course, resting anywhere near Sylus wasn't exactly ideal...

You exhale sharply, forcing his image out of your head. Why are you even thinking about him right now? Why was he always an unrelenting thought in your head?

Focus.

Your hands tighten into fists as you pull yourself upright, steeling your nerves. You had to keep pushing. The pain? You could handle it. The exhaustion? You’d dealt with worse. But Sylvia needed you to stay strong. Squaring your shoulders, you push forward, limping slightly as you march toward the gas station doors. Your body protests with every step, your muscles screaming for rest, but you ignore them. Pain is nothing. Adrenaline is your crutch now, keeping you upright, pushing you through the haze of exhaustion.

The rusty bell above the gas station door chimes as you shove it open, the heavy scent of stale food and dust hitting you immediately. The air is thick with the kind of stillness that only places long-forgotten seem to carry, as if time itself had abandoned this rundown stop in the middle of nowhere.

Your eyes sweep over the dimly lit aisles, scanning for any signs of danger. Old shelves sag beneath expired snack foods and faded bags of chips. Refrigerators hum in the back, their glass doors fogged with condensation. It’s eerily quiet.

Then your gaze lands on the guy behind the counter.

A young man—early twenties, maybe—slouches lazily against the register, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. His shaggy hair falls over his eyes, and a bored expression sits on his face. He doesn’t even glance up when you enter.

Your stomach churns.

You’ve been in places like this before. Sketchy, isolated stops. The last time you found yourself in a run-down gas station like this, you met Reese. And soon after? Your entire world turned to hell.

Your hands instinctively twitch, as if reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your posture straightens, eyes sharp, spine stiff. Don’t show weakness. Don’t trust him, even if he seems friendly.

Be assertive. Be smart. Your a woman all alone with a man at a deserted gas station.

And above all else— don’t let him see your fear.

You approach the counter slowly, clutching the thick envelope of cash tightly against your chest. Every step feels measured, deliberate. You’re hyperaware of your surroundings, the dim lighting, the faint hum of the refrigerators, the flickering fluorescent light above that casts harsh shadows along the stained tile floor.

The man behind the counter finally senses your presence, glancing up from his phone. He jumps slightly, clearly not expecting anyone at this hour. His surprise quickly fades into a small, easy smile.

"Ah…sorry. You caught me off guard," he says, setting his phone down. "I don’t get too many customers, to be honest."

You force a polite smile, trying to appear composed, though your insides are twisting with unease. Sylvia is still out there, alone in the car, vulnerable. Every second wasted inside this dusty old gas station feels like an eternity.

You clear your throat, straightening your posture, forcing steel into your voice. Don’t appear weak.

“I need enough gas to make it to the next town…city—whatever,” you say, already thumbing through the envelope, your fingers brushing against crisp bills. “How much for a full tank? Eighty should cover it, right?”

The man’s eyes flicker down toward the envelope in your hands. His gaze lingers a second too long.

You feel your stomach clench.

Something shifts in the air—not immediately threatening, but… interested. Curious. Too curious.

“Um…yeah,” he says finally, nodding as he straightens up. “That should do it. I’ll get you settled right now.”

His hand extends toward you, waiting for the money.

You exhale through your nose and nod, quickly counting out the cash. You don’t want to take too long, don’t want to give him a chance to ask questions or make small talk. You briskly press the bills into his open palm. Your fingertips graze against his.

You flinch.

It’s barely noticeable, but the movement is there, and you immediately look away, pulse kicking up a notch.

“Ah—sorry,” he mutters, fumbling the cash slightly as if he noticed the tension in you.

You don’t respond. You mumble a quick, “Thanks,” and turn on your heel, briskly walking toward the exit.

Get back to the car. Get back to Sylvia.

The bell above the door chimes as you step back outside, the night air cold against your skin once more. You don’t look back.

Relieved to finally be out of that suffocating, dust-filled gas station, you rush back to the car, your steps quick and purposeful. The air is sharp against your overheated skin, but you barely notice it—your only concern is Sylvia.

As you reach the car, your breath hitches slightly as you peer through the window, searching for her tiny form in the dim interior.

Still asleep. Thank god.

A wave of relief crashes over you, momentarily easing the knots in your stomach. She’s curled in her car seat, her little face barely visible in the darkness, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only thing keeping you from spiraling into panic.

Just pump the gas. Eat something. Wake her up to feed. Then go.

You quickly double-check the pump, making sure that sketchy attendant actually followed through. Your fingers hesitate over the button for a second before pressing it. The numbers flash correctly on the screen.

Good. One less thing to worry about.

You exhale slowly, shoving the nozzle into the gas tank, your hands trembling slightly as the tension in your body refuses to fully dissipate. You lean against the rickety old car, closing your eyes for a brief second.

Just breathe. One step at a time.

“Hey, um—”

A voice cuts through the night, sudden and far too close.

Your heart lurches into your throat. You spin violently, a panicked scream ripping from your chest as you stumble backward, hands flying up defensively.

"What the—!" Your voice comes out sharp, shaky.

The gas station attendant.

He throws his hands up instantly, eyes widening in alarm. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you—I swear!” His voice wobbles slightly, like he’s startled by your reaction.

Your breath is ragged, your pulse hammering painfully in your ears.

He shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…thought you might wanna know your tail light is, um… broken.”

You don’t answer immediately. You’re too busy reining in the storm inside you, the suffocating mix of paranoia, exhaustion, and adrenaline. Your hands are still trembling slightly, though you clench them into fists to hide it.

A broken tail light. That’s what this was about?

For a moment, you just stare at him, trying to determine whether or not he’s lying. Whether he’s stalling you for something worse.

Or someone worse.

Sylus.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the paranoia.

“…Right.” Your voice is flat, carefully guarded. “Thanks.”

Your fingers itch to grab the gas nozzle and get the hell out of here.

“I could…take a look at it if you’d like. Sometimes it’s just a weird wire. Easy fix,” the attendant says, offering you an earnest smile.

You feel the sweat forming at the back of your neck, an uneasy warmth that creeps down your spine. Something about his persistence sets you on edge. You glance at the pump’s screen, watching the numbers climb. Almost full.

Not much longer now. Just stay calm.

“Um, no thank you,” you mumble, forcing yourself to keep your tone neutral. “It’s an old car. Things break, it’s fine. I’ll get it looked at in the next city.”

You don’t make eye contact. You don’t want to engage.

Just let this conversation die.

But he doesn’t leave.

He lingers, hovering like a storm cloud, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets as if he’s trying to seem harmless. You keep your posture rigid, your body instinctively shifting closer to the driver's side door.

He finally speaks again, his voice oddly casual. "I see...um. Your daughter is…very cute. What’s her name?"

A shiver of ice rushes through your veins. Your grip tightens on the gas nozzle.

The mention of your daughter.

Coming out of a strange man's mouth.

Your pulse spikes, adrenaline replacing exhaustion in an instant. Every nerve in your body screams at you to protect her. Your hand twitches toward the car door handle, ready to grab her and bolt, ready to—

No. Stay still. Don’t escalate.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping in. He leans over slightly, peering into the car.

Too close.

Too close.

"Leave me alone," you say, your voice low, warning. Your jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

His head snaps back up, eyes flicking to yours in something like surprise. Then, to your growing disgust, he gives a sheepish little chuckle.

"I'm sorry…" he says, rubbing his neck, shifting his weight. "I just thought…you're very pretty…and—”

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up. The nozzle slams into the pump with a sharp clang, yanked free from the tank in one swift motion.

And then you take a single step forward, staring him down with everything left inside of you.

"I'm leaving," you say, voice cold. Final. "Get out of my way."

His demeanor shifts instantly. The awkward, sheepish act he had been putting on peels away like dead skin, revealing something far uglier underneath. His lips curl into a sneer, his once-meek expression hardening into something calculating, entitled. He steps forward without hesitation, and before you can react, his hand latches onto your wrist like a vice.

The moment his fingers dig into your skin, a shock of rage erupts through you, an electric, all-consuming fury that you hadn’t felt in ages—not since Reese. Not since Sylus. Not since that man in the basement.

"Fucking women," he spits, yanking you toward him with a force that nearly makes you stumble. "I was just having a conversation! What the fuck are you so uptight for—"

His words are cut short as your body moves before your mind can catch up.

Your free hand snaps up, clamping around his wrist, twisting it outward in a sharp, fluid motion. You step into him, shifting your weight forward, and suddenly, he’s off balance. He staggers, eyes widening in confusion and pain as you torque his arm into an unnatural angle.

With every ounce of muscle memory left in you, you twist, pivot, and use his own momentum against him. The moment his center of gravity tips too far forward, you yank hard, sending him crashing face-first onto the pavement.

The sound is sickening.

His skull meets the ground with a dull, wet crack, and a sharp gasp rips from his throat. His body bounces against the asphalt, his hands scrambling to push himself up, but you’re already on him.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

Your breath heaves, hot and wild in your chest, and a sound tears from your throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something primal, something animalistic. Before you can think, your foot slams into his ribs.

Once.

Hard.

A wheezing grunt escapes him as he jerks onto his side, but you don’t stop.

Another kick—this time to his gut. He gags. A wet, choking noise claws from his throat, and his hands curl toward his stomach on reflex.

But you’re not finished.

You rear back and slam your foot into his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest. Anything, everything.

Sylus.

Reese.

That man in the basement.

Luke.

Kieran.

Their faces blur and meld into the one beneath you, and suddenly, you’re kicking harder.

Harder.

Harder.

Your breath saws in and out of your lungs in sharp, jagged bursts, your heart hammering in your ears like war drums. Every kick feels like retribution. Every stomp, every hit, every impact is a scream your body was never allowed to release.

The man beneath you groans, then whimpers, curling into himself like a dying insect, blood trickling from his nose onto the cracked pavement.

But you don’t feel better.

You feel alive.

You stand over him, chest heaving, a faint tremor in your hands. The adrenaline still pulses through your veins, hot and all-consuming, but deep beneath it, you feel something else creeping in—a chilling sense of realization.

You’re not weak anymore.

You’re not a victim.

Not now.

Not. Ever. Again.

When you finally run out of breath, when the searing heat of rage begins to fizzle into exhaustion, you stagger back, your entire body trembling. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, your limbs heavy with the weight of what you’ve just done.

Beneath you, the man groans, his body a mess of bruises and split skin. Blood drips from his nose, smearing against the pavement as he twitches in pain. His arms feebly attempt to shield himself, but you can see it—the way his body curls inward, the way his wide, horrified eyes track your every movement.

Good.

He coughs, a wet, gurgling sound, his lips parting to speak—but he says nothing. He doesn’t dare.

You lean down, just enough to cast a looming shadow over his crumpled form. Your voice is low, strained from panting, but the warning in your tone is unmistakable.

“I said…” you breathe, wiping the sweat from your brow. “I’m leaving.”

You straighten, forcing yourself to turn away from the wreck of a man on the pavement. As if the interaction had never happened, you dust off your coat, smooth your trembling hands over your stomach, and take one final look at him.

Your lip curls, not in fear, not in disgust— but in something eerily close to satisfaction.

“Have a good night.”

And with that, you walk away.

Leaving the groaning man behind, you waste no time scrambling into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with shaking hands. The scent of gasoline still lingers in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat on your skin. Your pulse is hammering, your body still vibrating with adrenaline, but you force yourself to steady your grip on the wheel. Focus. Breathe. Drive.

You jam the keys into the ignition, the engine roaring to life as you yank the car into gear and pull away from the gas station. Your heart is still pounding in your ears, drowning out everything but the shrill wailing from the backseat. Sylvia.

She had been startled awake by the commotion, her cries loud and insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your spiraling thoughts. You glance into the rearview mirror, your daughter’s tiny, writhing form barely visible in the dim light. The sound is piercing, relentless—a desperate, needy scream that tugs at something primal inside you.

She’s hungry.

You know she needs to eat, but the lingering fear in your chest keeps your foot pressed against the gas pedal. You need distance. Security. Clara was one in a million, but you can’t trust anyone else. There are too many dangers, too many unknowns, and the idea of stopping—of exposing yourself and Sylvia to another potential threat—makes your stomach turn.

Just a little longer, baby. Please, just a little longer.

“Waaa! Waaa!”

Sylvia’s cries grow more frantic, her tiny body arching against the car seat. Her fists flail, her face scrunching up in distress. She’s starving. She doesn’t understand why you won’t stop.

“I know, baby. I know. I promise—just hold on. You can eat soon,” you plead, your voice trembling as you grip the wheel tighter. You’re talking more to yourself than her, trying to convince yourself that you’re making the right call, that a few more miles of safety are worth the delay.

But then—it hits.

A dizzying wave of nausea, so intense that your vision tunnels. Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, it feels like the air is too thick, your limbs too heavy. Your gut twists violently, an aching emptiness gnawing at you from the inside out.

Milk.

Your mind is suddenly filled with nothing but the overwhelming, singular thought of milk. Your body aches, your breasts throb with the need to feed her, the demand pulsing through you like a siren call. The pain is unlike anything you’ve felt before, a raw, clawing hunger that doesn’t belong to you—or does it?

The car veers sharply as your grip slackens on the wheel, and panic explodes through your chest. You snap back into focus just in time to jerk the wheel, slamming your foot against the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement, the entire car lurching as it skids to a grinding halt on the side of the road.

Sylvia shrieks louder, her cries blending with the ringing in your ears. Your head is spinning, your muscles locked in place as the suffocating hunger surges through your veins. Why do you feel like this? Why does it feel like your body is betraying you?

Then—without thinking, without even realizing you’ve moved—you’re already crawling into the backseat, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Almost zombielike. Your fingers fumble with Sylvia’s seatbelt, your breath ragged as you yank her free from the harness, pulling her trembling body into your arms.

She’s so small. So warm. So needy.

Your hands shake as you cradle her against your chest, your own breath coming in short, uneven pants. The world around you is distant now, blurred at the edges, the only thing real being the overwhelming thought screaming at you.

Feed her. Feed her now.

You don’t even feel like yourself anymore. You move like something else—something driven by impulse, by raw, consuming need. Your mind is foggy, your hands trembling as you tug at the collar of your shirt, exposing the swollen, aching skin underneath.

Sylvia’s cries weaken as she senses the proximity of food, her tiny mouth searching blindly. Yes. This is right. This is what she needs.

The second she latches, the tension in your body snaps like a taut wire. Your mind is filled with instant clarity again. Relief washes over you in waves, the pain in your stomach subsiding as she suckles, her frantic whimpers quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps.

You slump back against the seat, your entire body trembling from exhaustion and whatever the hell just overtook you. Your breath shudders, your mind barely able to process what just happened. Was that…normal?

Your body seemingly had acted on its own. It didn’t even feel like you were in control. Your thoughts didn't seem like yours...why the hell would you think of milk?

Something deep inside you stirs, an unsettling thought curling around your already fragile mind. You swallow hard, staring down at Sylvia as she drinks greedily, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

It couldn't have been...? No. You're being ridiculous. She's a baby. Babies can't...manipulate minds. Right? Sure, you had seen quite your fair share of oddities during your time as a Deepspace Hunter...but babies with mind control abilities was unheard of. Evolvers usually didn't even usually develop their abilities until well into adolescence. You knew that better than anyone. You blink the thoughts away, not wanting to overthink anything else right now. What matters is that she's eating. She's happy and eating.

Whatever that was though…it scared you. Deeply.

Sylus sat in the backseat of the sleek black car, fingers rhythmically tapping against his knee as he watched the grainy feed from Mephisto’s latest scan. The bird had picked up tire tracks leading away from the cabin, carving a clear path down an isolated stretch of road. It was confirmation. You were definitely in a car.

He let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly as the car sped along the same path. There was no need for panic. No need for impatience. You couldn’t run forever.

Not with his daughter.

Luke and Kieran sat near him, whispering to each other in low voices, though they knew better than to directly disturb him. Tension in the vehicle was thick. Every single one of them knew what was at stake.

Sylus’s eyes flicked to his watch, then back to the feed pinned to the dashboard. You had, at best, a few hours' head start.

That didn’t concern him. What concerned him was what those few hours might do to you.

No hospitals. No medical care. No help.

How much were you struggling? Was your body holding up after birth? Were you getting enough rest? Enough food? Was she crying? Hours nonstop on the road definitely wasn't good for a newborn.

The thought made his jaw tighten. Did you even know how to handle her cries properly? Did you know how to soothe her? Did you even understand what she needed?

He stopped himself. No, you weren't stupid. You had to have some idea to get this far. You’d been running on nothing but adrenaline and fear for weeks though. That couldn’t last.

And he was counting on that.

The corner of his lips twitched upward as Mephisto’s feed flickered, the camera lens catching glimpses of old road signs. The bird circled ahead, scanning the land like a mechanical vulture.

Then, his screen glitched—static flooding the feed for half a second—before stabilizing.

A gas station.

Sylus sat up straighter, rewinding the footage. The timestamp was barely an hour old. His pupils dilated as the distorted image sharpened—a blurry glimpse of you stepping out of a car.

There.

A slow, deep exhale left his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs in quiet victory.

You were still close.

"Boss?" Kieran glanced at him nervously, sensing the shift in his mood.

Sylus barely blinked, his gaze locked onto the monitor. He saw your face. Saw the exhaustion lining your eyes, the way your body moved like every step was a struggle.

You were breaking. You just didn’t know it yet.

"Drive faster," Sylus murmured, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. "She stopped at a gas station not long ago."

The driver whistled, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Kieran perked up, clearly excited. "Then we're catching up. Wonder how she’s holding up on her own."

Sylus didn’t answer. He already knew.

And it was only a matter of time before you did, too.

Sylus kept watching the video, eyes intent on capturing every single one of your movements. As if blinking meant losing sight of you forever. His grip on the device tightened, thumb hovering near the replay button, though he didn’t need to rewind it—he had already committed every second to memory.

Through Mephisto’s grainy feed, he could see you stepping out of the car, your movements sluggish, deliberate. Tired. His lips pressed into a thin line. Of course you were tired. He could only assume that his daughter remained strapped in the backseat while you made your way inside. He squinted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face.

What were you thinking? Leaving her alone, in the middle of nowhere?

The irritation built inside him like an ember, a slow-burning, undeniable truth: this is why you needed him.

You were making reckless decisions, no doubt running on nothing but fear and exhaustion. And in doing so, you were putting her at risk.

Sylus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should’ve expected this. You’d never had time to prepare for motherhood, never been in a stable enough situation to learn the proper way to care for a newborn. And now, without help, without him—you were floundering.

The thought should have pleased him. Should’ve reassured him that you’d come to your senses soon enough.

Instead, it pissed him off. Although he had tried...he had failed on his part of making you feel safe obviously. And despite the promises of change, his birdie had flown out of her cage again.

And it was ultimately his fault. Clara's words back at the farmhouse ringed in his head. As much as it pained him to even think about it. Regardless, it didn't change the fact that he had done everything out of necessity. He couldn't allow himself to feel guilt about it...yet.

His jaw clenched as he refocused on the footage. Mephisto had barely caught you in time. The bird was still sluggish from his last-minute tune-up after being shot—flying lower, slower than Sylus would’ve preferred—but it was enough. By some miracle, he had found you in the vastness of nowhere.

And Sylus refused to let you disappear again.

He watched as you exited the store almost as quickly as you had entered, your head snapping toward the car the moment you stepped outside. Checking on the baby. His baby.

How precious.

But it wasn’t enough. Sylus exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers tightening around the edge of his seat as he watched you move. He wanted—no, needed—more. The anticipation of finally laying eyes on his daughter, the perfect blend of you and him, had been gnawing at him since the moment he realized she had finally made her entrance into the world.

And yet, you kept her locked away from him. Hidden. Without even realizing it.

It was maddening.

He wished—no, ached—for you to open that car door and lift her into your arms, to grant him just a fleeting glimpse of what he has longed for his entire existence. To see the tiny, delicate baby you had carried for months—his firstborn, his blood, a piece of himself forged inside you.

But you didn’t. You merely glanced inside before refocusing on the gas pump, never once sparing him the satisfaction.

His teeth ground together.

What was it that made you so determined to keep her from him?

Did you think he wouldn’t know how to care for his own child? Did you think running would solve all your problems?

The sheer audacity of it made his stomach coil with frustration. Of course, you were a mother now—his darling little runaway. And while that was an adorable sight to behold in some aspects, it didn’t change the fact that you were his. Both of you.

And yet, here you were, trying so desperately to escape him. As if you could.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Soon.

Soon, he would hold you both in his arms.

He could already picture it—the warmth of your body finally pressed against his once more, your breath unsteady against his neck, your heartbeat syncing with his. You would struggle at first, of course. You always did. But he would calm you, hush your trembling sobs with whispered reassurances and quiet promises. He would remind you, over and over, that he was the only one who could truly keep you safe.

And his daughter…his perfect little girl.

He imagined her small, delicate weight in his hands, her soft cries settling into contented coos as he rocked her for the first time. He would press a kiss to her tiny forehead, trace his fingers over the softness of her hair, memorize the details of the child that you had stolen from him.

But there would be no more hiding.

No more running.

You would see it soon enough—that this was inevitable. That this was fate.

The moment you realized it, he would be there to catch you as you finally surrendered, as your resistance melted into exhausted acceptance. He would soothe the tears from your eyes, his lips brushing against your damp cheeks, and you would know—truly know—that there was no leaving anymore.

There never was.

His fingers tapped impatiently against his knee as he studied the way you moved, the way your eyes flicked back and forth with unease. Always looking over your shoulder, always afraid of who might be watching.

You shouldn't be afraid. Not of him at least. Was he perfect? No. But he was trying. He couldn't change the past, but he can write the future. If only you'd just stop running.

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Its fine. Everything will fall into place. Like it did last time.

He leaned forward slightly, watching intently as you moved to pump gas, fiddling with the machine, gaze shifting nervously toward the gas station door every few moments. He could tell by your tense posture that you weren’t at ease—and for good reason.

You knew he was coming.

You just didn’t know when.

Sylus’s eyes widened as he watched a figure emerge from the gas station, his entire body snapping to attention. A young man, no older than his early twenties, walked toward you with an almost casual air. Who the hell was he?

His pulse quickened, his senses immediately sharpening as he observed the interaction unfold through Mephisto’s feed. You didn’t notice the man at first—your awareness was still lacking, too focused on fueling the car and tending to your little escape plan. It infuriated him. You should have sensed the approach of a stranger before he got that close. His fingers drummed against his thigh impatiently, irritation seething under his skin.

The man hesitated before speaking, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he tried to peer into the car. What was he looking at? The realization hit Sylus like a strike of lightning. The baby.

His grip on the glass in his hand tightened dangerously. That fucking bastard was trying to get a look at his daughter.

Even though the feed only provided faint audio, he could make out the unease in your voice. You were uncomfortable. Your body stiffened. You turned away. Sylus watched you give clipped, dismissive responses, clear signs that you wanted nothing to do with this man. But the fool didn’t take the hint. You grew increasingly aggressive, slamming the pump back and attempting to get around him.

Then the stranger grabbed your wrist.

Sylus’s entire body went rigid.

Something primal and violent coiled in his gut, his blood running hot with barely contained rage. How dare he? How fucking dare some low-life, gas station nobody put his hands on you? If he had been there, he would have snapped the bastard’s fingers off one by one for even thinking of touching what was his.

But then—oh, kitten.

Sylus watched as, in the span of mere seconds, your body reacted before your mind did. Your instincts—those beautiful, sharpened instincts that he had always admired, always known were there—finally kicked in.

The man barely had time to register what had happened before you twisted his arm and flipped him onto the pavement with an effortless motion. A perfect maneuver. It was fluid, instinctual, deadly. The sound of his body hitting the ground was satisfying enough to make Sylus chuckle under his breath.

And then you stomped on him. Again. And again. And again.

He watched as the man turned into a writhing bloody mess. His amusement morphed into something deeper, something like pride as you leaned over his figure and grinned.

Yes.

There she is.

The fire, the strength, the pure ruthlessness he always knew you had in you—it was all there. And it was magnificent to finally witness.

He smirked, leaning forward slightly, unable to tear his eyes away from the feed. The way you didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. The way you unleashed every ounce of frustration, fear, and rage into every blow, as if making a statement—not just to this poor fool, but to the world itself.

Sylus exhaled slowly, feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

"That’s my girl."

"Holy shit. I'm glad the miss didn't do that to me," Kieran muttered, leaning over Sylus's shoulder as he watched the grainy footage unfold on the screen. His voice was a mix of awe and unease, his usual cocky demeanor faltering. "I wouldn’t have defended myself if she did, of course! Or hurt her in any way, boss! I swear, I'd never lay hands on her unless necessary."

Sylus didn't react at first, his crimson eyes still fixed on the footage as he rewinded a bit, watching the way you moved—the sheer force behind each calculated stomp, the way your body tensed with unrelenting fury. He didn't need to look at Kieran to know his men understood where they stood when it came to you.

Finally, with a slow nod, he acknowledged the statement. "Of course, you wouldn’t," he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning.

His men knew better. All of his staff had been given strict orders from the start: no one was to raise a hand against you. No one was to subdue you, restrain you, or so much as consider fighting back if you ever lashed out at them. Only unless you were an absolute danger to yourself, escaping, and he wasn't around.

He grit his teeth again. The one time they had been allowed to...and they failed. Though he didn't really prepare them for the scenario that you would turn a weapon on yourself, much less have one to begin with.

Luke...

"She was pregnant, dummy. I would've been impressed if she could," Luke snickered beside him, though there was an underlying tension in his voice.

Sylus didn't share their amusement. His eyes flicked toward Luke with quiet scrutiny, his arms crossing over his chest in a slow, deliberate motion. "She shouldn't have even gotten the chance," he said coolly.

Luke stiffened.

"Perhaps if someone paid more attention to what he leaves in his coat," Sylus continued, his voice deceptively calm, "she wouldn't have to stomp strange men into the ground to protect herself and our daughter."

Luke visibly shrank under the weight of Sylus's words, his bravado disappearing in an instant. "Right…sorry, boss," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, remembering that he wasn't quite yet off the hook.

Sylus exhaled through his nose, gaze returning to the flickering feed from Mephisto’s camera. The image of you—furious, breathless, standing over the bloody, groaning man—burned itself into his mind. His little kitten still had sharp claws after all. Good. You weren't weak. You could defend yourself until he found you at least.

Don't break until he's close enough.

Sylus clenched his fist, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. His jaw tightened, muscles twitching as he watched the way you scrambled back into the car. Even through the grainy, flickering screen, he could see the tremble in your hands as they gripped the wheel. His sharp eyes didn’t miss the way your chest heaved, how you fought to steady yourself.

His lips pressed into a thin line, irritation rolling through his veins like molten iron. You shouldn’t have to do this—shouldn’t have to fend off some pathetic bottom-feeder on your own. That was his job. The very thought of anyone else laying their hands on you, invading your space, sent his blood boiling.

And yet…his gaze softened ever so slightly, just for a fraction of a second.

He had always loved your fire, the way you resisted, fought, clawed for every ounce of freedom you could scrape together. It was infuriating and had slowed the progression of things, yes—but it was also mesmerizing. That strength, that will to survive, was exactly what made you his.

Still, it wouldn’t be long now.

All this built-up irritation clawed at his head, pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding release. His patience was a thin thread stretched taut, moments from snapping. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus.

At the very least, there were some fingers to shred to take out his frustrations.

The gas station’s fluorescent lights buzzed weakly, flickering intermittently as the battered young man dragged himself back inside. Every step was a struggle, his legs trembling beneath him as he coughed, a thick glob of blood splattering onto the linoleum floor. His jaw throbbed, and he could already feel his right eye swelling shut.

He staggered forward, gripping the edge of the counter for support, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fucking whore," he muttered bitterly, wiping at his busted lip with the back of his hand. "She's lucky…bitch should be on her knees begging instead of fighting."

His vision blurred for a moment, his body threatening to collapse. His hands fumbled against the register as he struggled to steady himself. He didn’t know what hurt more—the humiliation or the actual injuries.

The soft chime of the doorbell rang behind him, signaling someone entering. He flinched, his nerves frayed beyond repair. "We're closed," he rasped, his voice hoarse, not even bothering to turn around. "Come back—"

"Ah," came a deep, smooth voice from behind him. "You will be closed after tonight. Indefinitely."

The young man froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The weight of those words sank into his gut like lead. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head toward the door.

There, standing under the dim, flickering light, was a tall figure, clad in black. A pair of piercing red eyes gleamed in the fluorescent lights, predatory and cold.

The young man barely had time to process the looming presence behind him before a gloved hand clamped over his shoulder, squeezing just enough to make his bruised body jolt with pain. His breath hitched, and instinct screamed at him to run—but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Sylus leaned in slightly, his voice deceptively smooth, yet laced with something that sent ice straight into the young man's spine. "That was quite the beating you took," he murmured, almost conversational. "And yet, you still had the audacity to spit out insults about her?"

The young man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Oh! L-look, I don’t want any trouble, man," he stammered, barely managing to get the words out. "She—she freaked out for no reason! I didn’t even do anything—"

A sharp, pained grunt escaped him as Sylus’s grip tightened, fingers digging into his already bruised shoulder. "No, no," Sylus tsked, shaking his head slightly, eyes burning into him. "You did do something. You put your filthy hands on her. You scared her. That, I can't allow."

Before the young man could beg, Sylus shifted his grip, effortlessly dragging him forward before slamming his face down onto the counter. The glass candy display cracked under the force, loose wrappers and shattered shards tumbling onto the floor. The man let out a garbled cry, blood pooling from his nose onto the register.

Sylus exhaled, slow and measured, as if keeping himself from making more of a mess than necessary. "I should make this a slow lesson," he murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "A reminder to keep your hands to yourself. But I’m on a tight schedule."

His other hand raised lazily, fingers twitching slightly. A faint, red mist coiled from his palm, slithering through the air like phantom tendrils. The young man barely had time to scream before the mist lunged—wrapping around his wrists like invisible shackles. He gasped, eyes going wide as pain flared through his hands.

The sensation started as a slow, burning pressure—then turned razor-sharp.

The man’s scream split through the quiet night as his skin split open, jagged lines forming along his fingers and palms. Blood welled up in uneven, deep cuts that carved into the tendons like hungry fangs. His hands trembled violently, muscles spasming from the unnatural wounds.

Sylus tilted his head, watching the spectacle with the detached curiosity of an artist critiquing his work. The red mist flexed again, tearing deeper.

A gurgled sob tore from the man’s throat as he collapsed to his knees. His fingers curled inward instinctively, but the moment he tried to move them, fresh agony seized him. His hands—his fucking hands—

"Fuck!"

The young man let out a whimper, trembling as Sylus finally released him. He slumped against the counter, gasping, clutching at his face with bloodied hands. He was about to mumble out some weak attempt at an apology—when Sylus turned, walking toward the shelves lined with cheap liquor and dusty energy drinks.

Without hesitation, he reached up, knocking over several bottles, letting their contents splash onto the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of alcohol. The acrid scent filled the air, seeping into the aisles. He moved deliberately, tipping over a shelf of motor oil, letting it mix into the mess. The young man’s dazed expression twisted in confusion, then realization.

"Wait, wait—what are you—?" he stammered, struggling to push himself up.

Sylus simply flicked open a silver lighter from his pocket, the small flame casting an eerie glow against his sharp features. "Consider this severance," he mused, before tossing the lighter onto the floor.

The fire roared to life instantly.

Flames spread like liquid hunger, climbing the shelves, licking up the walls, racing toward the ceiling. Heat exploded outward, consuming everything in its wake. The young man scrambled back, his screams swallowed by the crackling inferno.

Sylus didn’t bother looking back as he stepped out of the gas station, the fire’s glow casting flickering shadows over his form. He adjusted his gloves, slipping into the backseat of the car once more.

Mephisto flapped onto the dashboard, letting out a mechanical caw.

"Yes, yes," Sylus murmured, cracking his knuckles as he set his sights on the road ahead. "I know, I know. We have two little birdies to retrieve."

With one last glance at the burning wreckage in his rearview mirror, the driver pressed his foot to the gas, peeling off into the night. Mephisto took off into the night sky once more.

Behind him, the gas station erupted in a final, deafening explosion. Luke and Kieran ooed and awwed at the sight, cheering at the flames as if it were a fire show. A pillar of fire shot into the sky, a violent exclamation mark on the lesson Sylus had left behind. No one would know for awhile that such an event occurred in the middle of nowhere.

And just like that, he was gone—chasing after the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

After a feeding and a diaper change for Sylvia, you had found yourself quickly getting back on the road. The exhaustion creeping through your bones is nothing compared to the dull, persistent ache that thrums through your lower body. Every movement sends a ripple of discomfort through you, a brutal reminder that your body hasn’t even had the chance to recover properly. The adrenaline from earlier, the sharp, fiery rush that had propelled you into action, is long gone now, leaving nothing but soreness and exhaustion in its wake.

You shift slightly in the driver’s seat, wincing as you adjust your posture. The pain is manageable—you’ve survived worse—but it makes every mile feel longer, every second behind the wheel heavier. The road ahead blurs slightly, the lines on the pavement stretching into the distance, endless and unknown. Still, you push forward. There’s no other choice. Stopping isn’t an option. Not when Sylus could be closing in at any moment.

In the backseat, Sylvia makes soft, sleepy noises around the pacifier you had finally managed to get her to take. It had been a struggle at first—she had resisted every attempt, wailing in frustration—but now, she sucks contentedly, tiny fingers curled against her blanket. You watch her for a brief moment in the rearview mirror, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in your chest. The sight of her peaceful, tiny form should have been comforting, but instead, it only added to the storm inside you. You were all she had. That responsibility was suffocating.

Were you still technically on the run with a newborn, completely unaware of what the next few hours, let alone the next few days, would hold? Yes. But for the first time in a long time, things seemed to be—however temporarily—working out in your favor.

The gas station had been a risk, one you had to take, but you handled it. The bastard had underestimated you, just like so many others before him. And despite the pounding ache in your limbs, the raw sting of exertion in your muscles, you felt something else deep in your gut—pride. It was small, fleeting, but it was there. You had defended yourself, defended your daughter, and sent a clear message. You weren’t weak. You weren’t helpless.

Still, as the high from that moment faded, reality crept in. Your body wasn’t the same as it was before pregnancy. It betrayed you in ways you weren’t used to. The soreness clung to your muscles, and your reflexes—once sharp and instinctual—felt sluggish. You had won this time, but what about the next? What if you hesitated for even a second too long? What if you weren’t fast enough to protect Sylvia?

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel. You couldn’t let those thoughts fester, not now. You had to keep moving. The darkness outside was thick, swallowing the road beyond your headlights, but there had to be something ahead. You had planned on stopping once you reached the next town, but how long had it been now? Clara had said it was miles away, but had you miscalculated? Was your sense of time completely warped from the exhaustion?

You shake your head, pressing forward. Your eyes burn from the lack of sleep, and your shoulders ache from hours of tension. You flex your fingers against the wheel, trying to force some of the stiffness from them. The last thing you needed was to get sloppy now.

A road sign loomed in the distance, barely illuminated by your headlights. You squinted, your heart leaping slightly in your chest as you read the worn, peeling letters. Five more miles to the next city. Relief surged through you, but it was brief, overshadowed by the ever-present weight in your gut. Five miles could be the difference between safety and disaster. Five miles was nothing.

You steal another glance in the rearview mirror. Sylvia was still fast asleep, her small face relaxed, tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm. The sight both soothed you and sent a wave of fresh guilt rolling through your stomach. How long could you keep this up? How long until she suffered because of your choices?

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel as you exhaled slowly.

One step at a time. One mile at a time.

The next five miles stretched endlessly, the road before you an unforgiving expanse of asphalt cutting through the early morning mist. The bold, weathered letters of a looming sign came into view, its chipped paint barely holding onto the message it carried: "Welcome to Windsor City." The sight should have brought relief, but instead, a sinking feeling clawed at your stomach, twisting into knots as the golden hues of the rising sun bathed the world in a deceptive warmth.

You murmured the city’s name under your breath, testing the words like they were foreign, something belonging to a past life. It had been so long since you’d been surrounded by towering structures, busy streets, and the rhythmic pulse of civilization. The skyline ahead was a vast, glittering beast, its patchwork of glass and steel piercing the heavens, glowing softly in the new light. It looked almost dreamlike, unreal, as though it existed in another dimension entirely. A stark contrast to the endless stretches of backroads and quiet wilderness that had cradled your escape for the past few weeks.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as an unexpected wave of grief laced with nostalgia hit you square in the chest. The last city you had truly called home was Linkon, and those memories felt like they belonged to another person. A ghost of yourself who still had a job, a future, friends that laughed with you over coffee and trivial work complaints. A self that had never known what it was like to wake up in a gilded cage. That person had died the moment Sylus entered your life. And now, even with miles between you, you felt the weight of his presence like a chain around your throat.

The road narrowed as you approached a bridge leading into the city, lined with sluggish rows of cars inching forward. Your stomach twisted in recognition of the uniformed figures pacing between vehicles. A checkpoint. You had been expecting something like this eventually, but seeing it in person made your pulse hammer. Security officers, clad in black and blue, moved with precision—checking IDs, inspecting trunks, occasionally directing cars to a secondary inspection zone. You quickly scanned the scene, assessing, calculating.

A toll booth would have been bad enough. But a full security stop? That was disastrous. You had money, but you didn’t have an ID. No passport. No way of identifying yourself or Sylvia. As far as the world knew, your daughter didn’t even exist. No birth certificate. No records. She was a shadow in the system, just like you were trying to become.

Your fingers curled into the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as you forced yourself to breathe through the rising panic. You needed a plan.

The car inched forward, and your mind raced through the possibilities. Could you talk your way through it? A lost ID sob story might work—people misplace things while traveling all the time. But the risk of being turned away or, worse, detained lingered like a warning siren in your head. If they looked too closely—if they saw the sheer amount of cash stashed beneath the passenger seat or noticed the weariness in your face—questions would follow. Questions you couldn’t afford to answer.

The car in front of you rolled forward, and now you were next in line.

A bead of sweat trickled down your temple. You cast a glance into the rearview mirror, your eyes landing on Sylvia’s sleeping form in the backseat. Her tiny chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm, her little hand curled into a fist beside her head. She was completely unaware of the tension gripping your body, of the invisible clock counting down your every move.

You had to get through this. For her.

As the uniformed officer stepped toward your window, clipboard in hand, you forced yourself to loosen your grip on the wheel, pushing every ounce of exhaustion and fear deep into the pit of your stomach. You had to make this work. There was no other option.

"Alright, baby girl," you whispered, barely audible over the rapid pounding of your heartbeat. "Let’s hope they don’t ask too many questions."

With one last deep breath, you rolled down the window and met the officer’s gaze, masking your nerves with the most convincing smile you could muster.

"Hi, ma’am. You a resident of the city? Got identification?"

The toll officer leaned slightly forward, eyes scanning the car’s interior with a practiced, impassive gaze. His uniform was crisp, badge gleaming under the dull morning light. His stance was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a silent scrutiny that made your palms damp against the steering wheel. He wasn’t hostile, not yet—but he was doing his job, and that was a problem.

You swallowed down the rising panic, forcing your expression to remain calm, pleasant. Confidence. You had to project confidence. Any hesitance, any nervous energy, and he’d sense it like blood in the water.

You let out a small, composed breath and forced an easy, warm smile onto your face. “Actually, yes. I live here with my husband,” you said, voice smooth, practiced. “I was out of town visiting family when—” You let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, gesturing toward the sleeping infant in the backseat. “Well, when everything happened a little earlier than planned. I wasn't expecting to make a sudden trip, so I left most of our things at home. It all happened in a rush. I'm trying to get back to him so he can meet her.”

You almost grimaced at the lie. The last thing you wanted to do was have Sylvia meet her father.

The officer’s gaze flickered toward Sylvia, and for a moment, you saw it—the softening in his expression. His posture relaxed, his grip on his notepad loosening slightly. You knew the sight of a newborn had a way of disarming people, of making them more sympathetic. You had seen it happen before, how even the coldest people melted in the presence of something so small and vulnerable.

The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity, your heart thrumming violently against your ribs. If this worked, if he let you through without much question—

The officer’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “She’s very cute. Congratulations, ma’am.”

Relief surged in your chest for a brief, fleeting moment. Maybe this would be easy. Maybe—

“But,” the officer continued, and your stomach dropped, “without proper identification, we’re gonna have to ask you to pull into the second lane for a quick search.”

Your entire body went rigid.

A search?

No. No, no, no.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the hum of the car’s engine. Your fingers curled around the steering wheel, your knuckles aching from the force of your grip. You had no ID. No paperwork. No legal proof that you even existed, let alone that Sylvia was yours. She wasn’t even officially registered as a person yet. And if they searched the car, if they ran anything—

They’d find out.

They’d find out that this vehicle wasn't even registered to a womans name. Sure you could lie and say that was your husband but if they searched more about him and realized it belonged to an elderly man?? Then what??

The officer was still watching you, waiting for you to comply, and the weight of his gaze was suffocating. You could already feel the other officers beyond the toll booths watching too, likely trained to spot hesitation, nervousness—anything that might hint at dishonesty.

This was bad.

“I—I understand,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind raced. Think. Think. You had seconds to come up with something, anything.

The toll officer gestured toward the second lane, where a few other cars were already pulled aside, waiting to be inspected. Two other officers stood near them, one speaking into a radio. Your stomach twisted.

You couldn’t risk it.

If they made you step out of the car, if they asked too many questions, it was over. You had no plan for this. You had no forged documents, no alias, no safety net. You were just a woman with a baby in a "stolen" car, and that wasn’t something you could talk your way out of. They'd make you leave. You needed to get into this city.

Your grip on the wheel tightened, fingernails digging into the leather. Your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears, adrenaline surging like wildfire through your veins.

You had to act—now.

Your eyes flickered to the road ahead, to the space just beyond the checkpoint, where the city stretched open and vast before you. Freedom was right there. It was within reach.

A quick decision.

A reckless decision.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself.

Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, you began to slowly press your foot onto the accelerator.

Just as your car roared to life and you were about to floor it, a sudden commotion erupted behind you, loud enough to make your heart leap into your throat. Shouting. A struggle. The distinct, frantic shuffle of boots against pavement.

"Stop resisting!" Several male voices barked, their commanding tones cutting through the morning air. The officer attending you snapped his head toward the noise, his hand instinctively reaching for the radio at his hip.

You stiffened, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. Shit. What was happening? You didn't have time for this. You needed to go, needed to slip away before anyone had a chance to scrutinize your lack of credentials.

The officer hesitated, his attention divided between you and the escalating situation. In the side mirror, you caught a glimpse of the source of the chaos—a man being yanked from his car, his arms flailing wildly as multiple officers restrained him. He was shouting something, but you couldn't make out what. The surrounding traffic had slowed, drivers craning their necks to watch the unfolding spectacle.

This was it. A distraction. A perfect opportunity handed to you by sheer dumb luck.

The officer looked back at you, his expression tense but expectant. "Go ahead, ma'am, pull forward to the secondary checkpoint—"

"Of course, officer, thank you," you replied smoothly, plastering on the most grateful, sleep-deprived-mother smile you could muster. Your foot hovered over the gas pedal, your heartbeat a frantic drum in your ears. He gave a firm nod and turned, jogging toward the scuffle as the man let out a garbled shout.

The second his back was fully turned, you slammed your foot down.

The car lurched forward, its tires screeching against the asphalt as you veered sharply away from the checkpoint lane, blending into the moving traffic ahead. Your pulse pounded violently against your ribs. You kept your gaze forward, hands locked in a vice grip on the wheel, doing everything in your power not to look back and see if anyone had noticed.

Sylvia stirred in the backseat, letting out a soft whimper.

"Shh, baby, just a little more," you whispered, voice barely steady. You swallowed hard, stomach twisting. You had no idea if they had your plate number, if they were going to radio ahead and set up a blockade further into the city. No idea how long your luck would hold.

You cast a quick glance at the mirror, sweat slicking your palms as the toll station shrank in the distance. No sudden sirens, no pursuing vehicles yet. Yet. You forced yourself to breathe, tried to focus on what came next. You had made it into the city, but you couldn’t afford to let your guard down. If they flagged your car, you needed to ditch it. Fast.

The tall buildings of Windsor loomed ahead, their glass surfaces reflecting the warm glow of morning light. It was strange, being back in a city after so long in hiding. The hum of civilization, the distant honking of impatient drivers, the muffled sound of pedestrians moving along sidewalks—it all felt too normal. Almost surreal, considering the life-or-death game of cat and mouse you were playing.

Sylvia whimpered again, and your heart clenched. She was hungry again. You needed to stop soon. But where? You had to think fast. The city would provide you cover, but only if you kept moving, stayed smart. Gas stations, convenience stores, alleyways—you needed to plan your next step, and you needed to do it now.

But one thing was certain—you couldn't stop now. You had made it past the gate. You were in Windsor City. And now, every second counted.

The city unfolded before you like an intricate tapestry of lights, towering glass structures, and bustling life. It had been so long since you were surrounded by this kind of energy, the organized chaos of people moving, talking, and living in a way that felt almost foreign now. You hadn’t realized how much your world had shrunk in the past year, how the isolation had wrapped around you like a second skin. Now, the sheer volume of movement, the never-ending sounds of horns, laughter, and distant conversations were both mesmerizing and suffocating.

Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you tried to navigate without the crutch of a GPS. Every street sign was unfamiliar, every turn a risk. You needed a place to stay, somewhere that wouldn’t demand identification or ask too many questions. A motel, preferably one that accepted cash upfront. A safer haven than a backseat. The thought of choosing the wrong place, of ending up in a dangerous situation, gnawed at the edges of your mind. But what choice did you have?

A glance in the rearview mirror showed Sylvia still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily. The sight softened you. You had to be strong, had to figure this out. For her.

After circling aimlessly for what felt like an eternity, you spotted a small park nestled between two larger buildings. It was a quiet slice of nature in the middle of all the steel and stone. The sign near the entrance advertised clean restrooms, benches, and even a designated privacy area for breastfeeding mothers. A small relief. You could use a moment to breathe, stretch, maybe even gather your thoughts before plunging forward into more uncertainty.

You pulled into a nearby parking space, exhaling as you shut off the car. Your entire body ached from the drive, the tension still coiled tight in your shoulders. And yet, as you sat there in the silence of the car, you hesitated. It felt ridiculous, but stepping out felt like another commitment—another moment where you had to face just how alone you were.

Sylvia stirred in her car seat, a small whimper escaping her lips before she settled again. The instinct to comfort her overrode everything else, pushing you into motion. You opened the door, stepping out into the crisp city air. It smelled of rain and pavement, of life moving forward while you were still trying to figure out your place in it again.

You walked around to the backseat, unbuckling Sylvia carefully, her tiny body warm against your chest as you lifted her out. She shifted slightly but didn’t wake, and for that, you were grateful. As much as you loved her, the endless cycle of feedings and exhaustion had left you drained.

The walk to the bench felt longer than it should have, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But as you finally sat, cradling your daughter close, a strange feeling settled over you. The overwhelming loneliness didn’t fade, but for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to just be. The city moved around you, indifferent to your struggles. But in this moment, in this small park, with Sylvia nestled against your heartbeat, you could pretend—just for a little while—that you weren’t running.

For a while, you didn’t move. You just sat there, breathing in the moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over you. The distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children playing nearby, the occasional chirping of birds—it all felt so normal. So ordinary. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few weeks, to the weight of fear and exhaustion that still clung to your body like a second skin.

But for just this moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that you weren’t on the run, that you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder for the shadow of a man who refused to let you go. That you weren’t alone in this city with nothing but an envelope of cash and a fragile, three-week-old baby who depended on you for everything.

Your gaze drifted downward, settling on Sylvia’s sleeping face. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her lips parted slightly as she made the faintest sucking motions in her sleep. The wind stirred, blowing a few wisps of her soft hair across her forehead, and you instinctively reached out to brush it away. Your fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheek, her impossibly small nose.

She looked so much like him.

The realization hit you hard, the breath catching in your throat. The shape of her tiny mouth, the subtle arch of her brow, the barely-there curl to her lashes—all of it was unmistakable. Sylus. His blood ran through her veins, just as much as yours did. You tried not to think about it much, but it was nearly impossible.

Months of pain and suffering laid neatly in your arms right now.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. She was so innocent, so untouched by the horrors of the world. She had no idea what kind of life she had been born into. No idea that the man who had given her those features was the very reason you had to keep running.

Yet, despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to resent her for it. If anything, it made you ache more. Because Sylvia would never know the luxury of a simple, peaceful life. Not with you constantly looking over your shoulder. Not with Sylus hunting you down like an animal.

Your arms instinctively tightened around her, cradling her just a little closer to your chest.

“God…I envy you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the city noise. You wished you could just be an innocent baby again.

Sylvia stirred slightly, her face scrunching up before relaxing again into sleep. She was warm against you, a tiny, fragile piece of yourself that you had sworn to protect. But as you sat there, staring down at her peaceful face, the weight of it all pressed heavier on your chest.

How much longer could you keep this up? How much longer until exhaustion won? Until Sylus finally found you?

Or worse—until you started to wonder if running was even worth it anymore.

After a bit, Sylvia stirred against your chest, her tiny whimpers quickly escalating into fussing. You sighed, adjusting your hold on her as you prepared for yet another feeding. The moment you repositioned her, she latched on, though her suckling was noticeably weaker than usual.

You frowned slightly. Was she not as hungry? Or was your milk supply dipping? You hadn’t eaten properly in hours—maybe even a full day at this point. That had to be it. You needed food, something substantial, to keep yourself going. To keep producing enough to sustain her.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. Eating meant stopping somewhere again, being out in the open. Every moment you weren’t moving felt like another opportunity for Sylus to catch up. You couldn’t afford that.

But you couldn’t afford to let Sylvia go hungry either. The formula Clara had packed it was definitely spoiled now. Yes, you had some cans of formula but Sylvia didn't always take it. It would be easier and less stressful to just keep up your supply.

As she nursed, your mind raced through possible solutions. Fast food? A grocery store where you could grab something quick and calorie-dense? You needed to be smart. Find something in a well-populated area where you wouldn’t stand out, but not too crowded where you might be noticed.

Sylvia pulled away with a small grunt, her lips parting as she let out a tiny yawn. You readjusted your shirt and lifted her onto your shoulder, rubbing slow circles on her back as you stood from the bench. She let out a small, sleepy burp, her head resting against your collarbone.

A part of you wanted to sit there just a little longer. Just a few more minutes of stillness. Of pretending things were normal. But you had wasted enough time already.

Break was over.

Shifting Sylvia into the crook of your arm, you moved briskly back toward the car, your paranoia creeping back with every step. The park was peaceful, but something about it felt...off. The quiet hum of distant traffic, the scattered people walking by—it should’ve been reassuring. Instead, it made your skin crawl.

You reached the backseat side, your hand hovering over the door handle before something in your peripheral vision made you freeze.

A shadow in the trees.

Your heartbeat spiked as you slowly turned your head. There, perched on the highest branch of a skeletal tree, sat a single crow.

Your blood turned cold.

Mephisto?

No. No, it couldn’t be. You squinted, heart hammering against your ribs as you studied the bird. It was just a crow. Just a normal, everyday bird. Right? You watched as it began to battle some pigeons on another branch.

But normal birds didn’t send chills down your spine. Normal birds didn’t make you feel watched.

Your grip on Sylvia tightened, your breath shallow. You couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but you knew better than to ignore your instincts.

So what if you were overthinking it? It was time to go anyways.

Quickly laying her down on the seat and changing her diaper, you quickly discarded the diaper pile that had been building up and got her buckled in again. You'd have to changer her clothes soon but that could wait until you found a place to stay.

It didn’t take long to find a small grocery store tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The "OPEN" sign flickered inconsistently, casting a dim, wavering glow onto the glass doors. You pulled into the lot, parking in a spot that provided an easy escape route—just in case. Your heartbeat, which had finally started to settle, picked up again. Every stop was a risk. Every moment out in the open was an opportunity for Sylus to find you.

Taking only a modest sum from the envelope of cash—just enough to keep things inconspicuous—you adjusted the makeshift baby wrap you’d fashioned from an old shirt. Sylvia was nestled securely against your chest, her small body radiating warmth. She had been quiet for most of the drive, but now, blinking up at you with groggy, crimson-tinged eyes, she fussed under the brightness of the sun. You instinctively rubbed her back, rocking slightly as you pushed open the door.

A bell jingled as you stepped inside, the cool air blasting against your skin. The place smelled like a mix of cleaning supplies, stale produce, and faint traces of something fried. Despite its humble size, the store was decently stocked, shelves lined with dry goods, canned food, and a small selection of fresh fruits and vegetables.

You moved quickly, scanning the shelves with purpose. The act of shopping felt eerily normal—mundane, even—but the weight of reality pressed against your chest. The last time you had been in a store like this…it had to be almost a year ago. Back in captivity, there had been no need. No choice. Sylus had ensured everything was provided for you, all food meticulously delivered to the estate, your meals planned out to the last calorie. You had never even been allowed to leave the room for months, much less pick out what you wanted in a store.

A small, rebellious flicker of satisfaction stirred in your chest. This was freedom, wasn’t it? The ability to decide for yourself, even if it was something as small as which fruit to buy. You clenched the apple in your palm a little tighter, but the feeling was fleeting.

The overstimulation crept in before you could stop it. The chatter of shoppers, the steady beep of registers, the hum of refrigeration units—it was all too much at once. Your vision swam for a moment, breath coming just a little too fast. You forced yourself to focus. In and out. No lingering. No unnecessary risks.

With your small selection of food in hand, you veered toward the baby aisle. Sylvia had grown quickly in just three and a half weeks. While she wasn’t heavy, constantly carrying her had taken a toll on your body, which was still weak from birth. You ignored the twinge of pain as you crouched slightly, scanning the rows of baby gear. A stroller. That was what you needed. Just something cheap and functional.

Your fingers hovered over the cheapest option, lips pressing into a thin line. Every dollar counted. But you needed this. Sylvia needed this. As if sensing your hesitation, she let out a soft whine, her tiny fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. You exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, I know," you murmured to her. "We need to save money, don’t we?"

With a final glance at the price tag, you grabbed the stroller, tossing in a small pack of diapers and wipes for good measure. As you approached the register, a new thought struck you. You turned on your heel and hurried back down the aisle, grabbing a roll of duct tape before returning to the counter. The clerk barely glanced up, continuing to scan your items with mechanical disinterest.

Minutes later, you were back in the car, the rustling of plastic bags filling the silence as you settled Sylvia into her car seat. The moment you clicked the buckle into place, your stomach clenched. You hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever. Unwrapping the sandwich with trembling hands, you took a ravenous bite, chewing slowly as exhaustion sank into your bones. The ache in your limbs had become a dull, ever-present throb, a reminder that your body was still healing. But there was no time for rest.

You stared at the sandwich in your hands, barely tasting it. Another night. Another stop. But how many more until Sylus caught up? How many more before exhaustion, hunger, or sheer bad luck caught up with you first?

With the last bite of the apple was swallowed, you reached for the duct tape, ripping a strip off with your teeth before getting out and carefully covering the car’s license plate. It wouldn’t be a perfect fix, but it would buy you some time. If anyone tried to run your plates, they'd get nothing. Better yet, Sylus wouldn't realize it was connected to Clara's father if he somehow managed to get a glimpse of the car. You patted it down firmly before glancing at the horizon, the sun already beginning to dip below the skyline.

Time to move again.

You drove around endlessly, weaving through side streets and avoiding main roads as much as possible, your paranoia growing with each passing mile. Every streetlight, every camera mounted on the corner of a building made your stomach twist with anxiety. You couldn't risk being seen—not with Sylvia in tow, not when you knew Sylus could be tracking you even now.

You had passed three motels already, each one striking the wrong chord in your gut. The first had a group of men huddled near a door, their cigarette tips glowing in the dark, but the acrid smell in the air told you they weren’t just smoking tobacco. Their hushed, erratic laughter sent an immediate warning through your nerves. No way in hell.

The second motel was even worse—no proper parking lot, just a patch of dirt riddled with tire tracks and broken glass. The flickering neon VACANCY sign buzzed above, giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel. Something about it sent shivers down your spine, the way the windows were all dark like empty sockets staring right at you.

The third had seemed promising until you stepped inside. The office reeked of old coffee and mildew, and the so-called manager was slumped over at the desk, dead to the world. No matter how loudly you cleared your throat or tapped the desk, the man didn't stir. The idea of staying somewhere run by someone so utterly unaware of their surroundings didn’t sit right with you.

And now, here you were, pulling up to your fourth option of the night.

Cedarwood Motel.

It was small, the kind of place that wouldn’t attract much attention, but modern enough to not look like a complete hellhole. The dull amber glow of the sign illuminated the empty lot, the office window giving you a glimpse of the front desk. No loitering men, no strange smells hitting you from the entrance, no obvious red flags—so far.

You turned in your seat, glancing toward the back where Sylvia was curled in her makeshift blanket nest in the car seat, her chest rising and falling with deep, undisturbed breaths. Your heart clenched a little. She had been doing better than expected, but you knew she needed more than this. A proper bed. A real rest. You needed it, too.

Letting out a deep, steadying breath, you killed the engine and prepared yourself. You were running on fumes at this point, but there was no other option. This would have to do.

The motel bathroom was cramped, the walls lined with outdated floral wallpaper that had started to peel in the corners. The sink faucet dripped every few seconds, and the overhead light flickered intermittently, giving the space a dim, uneven glow. But it would have to do.

Sylvia’s tiny wails echoed in the tiled room as you knelt by the bathtub, her little body trembling despite the water being warm. Her tiny fists flailed as she kicked against the sensation, her sobs hitching in her throat.

“I know, I know…I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and soothing even as your heart ached. You had thought a bath would calm her, like you had seen on tv. But this was anything but calming.

Your hands were careful as you ran the washcloth over her delicate skin, wiping away the remnants of the long, exhausting day. She had been wrapped up in that car seat for too long, and you couldn’t stand the thought of her being uncomfortable a second longer than necessary. You had gotten in the bath with her, attempting to save time and hot water by washing you both. But she clearly didn’t appreciate the gesture, her cries growing louder the moment you started on her hair.

“Shhh, shhh, okay, I just need to wash your hair, alright?” you whispered, voice laced with exhaustion as you dipped your fingers in the water, gently massaging the motel shampoo into her soft scalp.

Her tiny face scrunched in protest, her sobs momentarily breaking into hiccups before she wailed again, her body wriggling against the support of your hand. Your chest tightened.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Almost done, I promise,” you cooed, trying to calm her as you carefully rinsed out the soap, making sure not to get any in her eyes.

Despite your gentle touch, her cries didn’t ease. She was shivering even in the warm bath, her little body reacting to the stress of it all, and a deep guilt settled in your stomach. It wasn’t just the bath—everything had been too much for her. This wasn’t the kind of life a newborn should have, moving from one unknown place to the next, never in one spot long enough to settle. You wished things were different.

You sighed, running a hand down your face before quickly stepping out and wrapping her in the softest towel you could find, pressing her against your chest. The moment she felt your warmth, her cries started to weaken, her tiny body curling into you instinctively.

“There we go,” you whispered, kissing the top of her damp head. “See? Not so bad…”

But as you held her close, feeling her small breaths against your skin, that creeping thought returned. You were failing her. Stressing her out beyond what she should be. Why were you putting a newborn through all this?

You don't deserve her. She's better off without you.

You close your eyes, gently rocking her trying to remove the awful thoughts.

You shook your head, pushing the intrusive thoughts away. There was no use in dwelling on these awful thoughts. You needed to focus on the present, on keeping Sylvia comfortable and safe. That was all that mattered.

With practiced movements, you wrapped her snugly in a clean onesie, taking extra care to dry her soft hair before slipping a tiny cap over her head. You tugged on one of the old, oversized shirts Clara had given you and pulled the motel’s scratchy blanket over your lap. The exhaustion was hitting you full force now, making every movement feel sluggish and heavy, but at least you were both clean and settled.

Then you saw it.

Or rather—what you didn’t see.

Your stomach clenched as your gaze darted around the dimly lit motel room, scanning every corner, every piece of furniture. No crib. No bassinet. No safe place for her to sleep.

Shit.

How had you forgotten something so important? You’d been so focused on getting here, on getting through the night, that you hadn’t even thought about where she’d actually sleep. The realization made you feel like a failure all over again.

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. Okay, okay. It’s fine. It’s just one night.

Your eyes landed on the bed—a stiff, creaky thing with barely enough room for one person, let alone two. You hesitated before gently placing Sylvia down beside you, adjusting her position carefully, making sure she was safe. But the moment you moved your hands away, her face crumpled, and a sharp, heart-wrenching wail filled the room.

“No, no, no, Sylvie, it’s okay,” you whispered, quickly reaching for her. You tried shifting her to her side, patting her back, even tucking the blanket around her more snugly—but nothing worked. She squirmed, arms flailing, her little mouth open in an ear-piercing cry.

Your own chest tightened. What am I doing wrong?

You turned her every which way, tried shushing her gently, rocking her where she lay, but nothing soothed her. She just cried and cried, her tiny fists curling and uncurling in distress. You could feel frustration creeping up your spine, but more than that, the guilt. You were her mother. You were supposed to know what she needed. But right now? Right now, you felt completely useless.

"You slept just fine by yourself before, what's the issue now Sylvie?"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you gave up and did the only thing that made sense. You scooped her up and laid her directly on your chest, holding her close, one hand splayed protectively over her back.

And just like that, she stopped.

Her sobs melted into little hiccups, and within seconds, she was nothing but a soft, warm weight against you, her tiny breaths puffing rhythmically against your collarbone.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, your entire body going slack with relief.

“Figures,” you murmured tiredly, running a hand down her back. “You just wanted to be close after a long ride in a carseat, huh?”

Sylvia’s fingers twitched against your shirt in response, and you let out a quiet chuckle.

As your head sank back into the pillow, you finally allowed yourself to close your eyes. The tension in your shoulders remained, the ever-present paranoia never fully leaving your system—but at least for now, in this moment, with your daughter curled against you, the world outside felt just a little bit quieter.

You had disappeared again.

For a fleeting moment, he had seen you. A glimpse of you behind the wheel, crossing the bridge into the city, your hair catching in the wind, your hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension he could feel even through Mephisto’s grainy aerial footage. But then—gone.

Mephisto had lost you amidst the maze of cars, and just like that, you had vanished into thin air once more.

He couldn't understand. He had stalked and found countless amount of people with ease and yet...you had slipped through the cracks.

His patience, already worn thin, was unraveling by the day. It wasn’t for a lack of effort; he was hacking into street cameras like no one’s business, combing through footage for any trace of you. Still, there was zero sight of that run-down car. You had gotten smarter—too smart. You avoided main roads, stayed away from major traffic hubs, dodged places you knew could be under surveillance clearly. It was almost impressive. Almost. But it was also infuriating.

He had ordered his men to track hospital and clinic records, knowing you couldn't avoid medical attention forever. Surely, with how weak you had been toward the end of your pregnancy, you would have needed help by now. A check-up. A prescription. Something. But every report they pulled of a postpartum woman with a newborn wasn’t you. No record of you giving birth, no sudden ER visits, no documented cases of a woman fitting your description. Nothing.

It was as if you had simply ceased to exist.

His fingers curled into a fist against his desk, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the dim glow of the monitors surrounding him. The city was vast, but not endless. You had to be somewhere. And when he found you, he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to what he had already missed. The moment she came into the world—his daughter. Had you screamed for him in those final moments, cursing him even as your body broke itself apart to bring their child into existence? He clenched his jaw at the thought, fingers tightening into his palm. That was supposed to have been a moment you shared together.

His chest ached with something ugly. Regret? Longing? He shook it off. It didn’t matter. None of it did. What mattered was fixing it. What mattered was bringing you both back where you belonged.

But Sylus’s drinking was getting worse. Much worse.

He was no stranger to indulging—alcohol had always been a crutch for him, something to take the edge off when things weren’t going his way. But now? Now it was different. It wasn’t about leisure or numbing minor inconveniences. It was about survival. Because without the burn of whiskey down his throat, without that momentary haze dulling the sharp edges of his mind, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep himself together.

The nights were the worst.

During the day, he could distract himself—he could hunt, strategize, pull every resource he had to try and locate you. He could scan through endless surveillance feeds, hack into security systems, command his men to chase down leads. But at night? At night, he had nothing but silence and the agonizing absence of you.

That was when the images came creeping in.

You, alone. You, scared. You, clutching his daughter to your chest, unsure of how you were going to feed her next. Were you cold? Were you sick? Had you found shelter?

The thoughts made his stomach twist so violently he could barely stand it.

Another glass. Another burn. It barely dulled the aching frustration, the relentless feeling of failure clawing at his mind. He had been so close. So fucking close before. And now he was back to square one.

Sylus exhaled slowly, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His other hand gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening. His patience had never been his strongest suit, but this was different. It had been weeks, and still, you eluded him. You had disappeared into the cracks of the world, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

Never in his life had he had felt so inadequate. He had been routinely outsmarted by you again and again.

The room around him was dimly lit, a near-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the table beside him, its contents dangerously low. He had never been one to let himself spiral, but the weight of everything was pressing down on him, suffocating him.

And then came the worst part.

The moments where the alcohol wasn’t strong enough to drown out the memories.

He never allowed himself to think about his own past—there was no point in dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed. But when it came to you…

He kept thinking back.

To the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. The hesitation in your eyes, the wary curiosity that had been there before you had truly started to hate him. The way you had kissed him that night in front of Xavier, the warmth of your lips against his, the way your hands had trembled against his face. It had been a performance, but god, if it hadn’t felt real.

And then—

You had ran. Even after everything. Just when he thought things were finally calming down.

Sylus clenched his jaw, pressing his fingers against his temples. He digged around in his pocket, feeling around for the engagement ring you had pawned off for cash. He didn't pull it out. It hurt to look at it. He had wanted it to make you as happy as it had made him.

You had made it clear as day that it was never the case.

Would things have been different if he had handled things better? If he had spoken to you more softly? If he hadn’t let his temper get the best of him? Would you have stayed? Would you have trusted him?

Would you have loved him?

He let out a bitter laugh under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned forward again, grabbing the whiskey bottle with an iron grip and pouring himself another glass. It didn’t matter. It was too late for that. He had spent months playing the villain in your story, and now he had no choice but to finish the role.

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, the liquid scorching its way down his throat. His free hand curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm, his frustration mounting with every second you remained hidden.

The silent plea in your eyes as you left the twins, the sheer, raw desperation to escape him. Had you hated him so much? Would you really rather starve, suffer, and wander aimlessly with a newborn than return to him?

A cruel smirk twisted his lips as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

No. You didn’t get to decide that. Not anymore. It was for your own good that you and his daughter were found immediately.

He would find you. He would bring you home, and he would hold his daughter in his arms. He would remind you of the life you could have had, the life you would have once he had you back where you belonged. He would spend every waking moment trying to show you the man he could be.

Unfortunately, Sylus couldn’t dedicate every waking second to hunting you down, no matter how much he ached to. The empire of Onychinus still demanded his attention—there were deals to be made, threats to be eliminated, and an endless cycle of business that could never be neglected. Even now, as his men carried out high-stakes negotiations over illegal protocores and weapons, his mind drifted to you. To her. His daughter.

Every moment he wasn’t personally combing the streets of Windsor City, he was ensuring that every single resource at his disposal was being used to track you down. And once his duties were handled, once he was done dealing death and destruction to those who dared to oppose him, he would immediately return to the city where he knew—knew—you still were.

Sylus had spared no expense in setting up a base of operations. He had rented a mansion in Windsor City—something temporary, but lavish, an estate that kept him within reach of the search while affording him every comfort he was accustomed to. The finest liquor was stocked in the cabinets, rare cuts of meat were delivered on a schedule, and the place had enough security to make even the most ambitious assassin rethink their life choices. But none of it mattered. None of it brought him any peace.

He barely even lived there—what was the point of a mansion when the one thing he wanted most was still missing? When he walked its halls at night, every footstep echoed in the empty spaces where he should have heard you.

And still, he knew you hadn’t left Windsor. He could feel it in his bones, in the way his gut twisted whenever he drove through the city, the unshakable sense that you were near. Hiding. Running. Surviving. But still his.

It was this certainty that kept him going. Kept him from completely losing himself.

On one particularly restless evening, he found himself in his study, nursing a glass of Gin Fizz that barely did anything to dull the frustration clawing at his insides.

He had gotten a bit sick of whiskey for the moment.

Mephisto perched on the desk beside him, metal talons clicking lightly against the polished wood. The mansion was quiet save for the faint hum of music playing from the antique record player in the corner, some classical composition that normally would have soothed his nerves. But nothing soothed him anymore.

His eyes drifted to the calendar on his desk.

He hadn’t been keeping track of the days—not in the way he normally would—but something about tonight made him glance at the numbers. A small red mark stood out against the otherwise pristine white square of tomorrow’s date.

Six weeks.

His daughter would be turning six weeks old in the morning.

His breath hitched slightly, and before he realized what he was doing, he had pulled out his phone. His fingers moved on their own, searching.

Six-week-old baby milestones.

The results flooded his screen in an instant. He scrolled through the articles and parenting forums, reading each detail with obsessive focus. At six weeks, she should be making more eye contact. She’d be smiling now—a real smile, not just an instinctual reflex. Her tiny hands would be more coordinated, reaching for things, grasping at whatever was within her reach. She might even be opening her eyes more, making those early attempts at taking in her surroundings.

His chest tightened painfully.

Had you seen her first real smile? Had she reached for you? Did she coo when you spoke to her, when you held her?

Had you...named her?

A sharp pang twisted deep in his stomach. He had already lost so much. He had missed everything.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the glass in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

Where was she sleeping tonight? Was she warm enough? Were you still able to feed her properly? Did she even have a proper crib, or were you forced to make do with whatever the hell you could find?

The thought of his daughter—his perfect daughter—lying in some rundown motel, bundled in whatever cheap blankets you could scavenge, made his blood boil.

This was not the life he had envisioned for her.

This was not the life he had planned.

Sylus took a slow, shuddering breath and forced himself to set the glass down before he shattered it. His hands were trembling. He pressed his fingers to his temples, willing himself to think, to strategize.

He couldn’t let another week pass like this. Another day.

No more waiting.

No more patience.

He would find you.

And when he did—when he finally had you back in his arms—all would be right in the world again.

Sylus blinked as the realization settled over him like a slow-building storm. A motel. It should have been obvious. The answer had been in front of him this entire time, yet he had spent weeks chasing ghosts, circling dead-end theories, his frustration mounting with each passing day. His first assumption had been that you had wormed your way into someone’s home, that you had managed to find another bleeding-heart fool like Clara—someone naive enough to shelter you, to let you hide behind their kindness, thinking they were protecting you from a monster they didn’t understand. He had scoured the city's quieter residential districts, had his men track down every shelter, charity, and underground safehouse, tearing through the city’s underbelly in search of a trace of you. But there was nothing. No one had seen you. No one had taken you in.

For a brief, maddening moment, he had considered the possibility that you had run out of money entirely, that you were sleeping on the streets, desperate and destitute, scraping by on scraps like some pathetic runaway. That thought had nearly driven him to put a bullet in someone’s head. The very idea of you—his woman, the mother of his child—reduced to such a state made his stomach twist with rage. But now, as the pieces finally clicked into place, he realized why you had managed to keep yourself hidden for this long. A motel. Of course. It was the perfect hideout—cheap, discreet, and, most importantly, temporary. Places like that didn’t care about names, didn’t ask questions, didn’t leave behind a paper trail. As long as you had cash, you were just another anonymous traveler passing through. No records. No real trace.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing against his temple as his mind recalibrated, the weight of his own oversight gnawing at him. He should have expected this. You weren’t making the same mistakes you had before. You weren’t seeking comfort, safety, or permanence. You were stalling, running on borrowed time, waiting for something—but what? An opening? A chance to disappear entirely? His smirk curled at the edges, though there was no amusement behind it. Clever girl. But he wasn’t entertained. Not anymore.

His gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall, the red digits glaring back at him: 2:46 AM. Another night spent glued to surveillance feeds, combing through street cameras, hacking into data streams, watching for even the smallest flicker of your presence in the city. He had ripped Windsor apart in his search, but it had all led him in circles, like a goddamn hound chasing after scraps. His patience, already hanging by a thread, was beginning to fray beyond repair. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with the effort to keep his temper in check. You were his. His woman. His kitten. The mother of his child. And yet here you were, hiding from him, forcing yourself to suffer in ways that were beneath you.

The thought of you huddled in some filthy, bedbug-infested shithole made his stomach churn with something dangerously close to guilt. This wasn’t survival. This was suffering. And Sylus refused—absolutely fucking refused—to allow you to waste away in some goddamn motel room, forcing yourself to live in conditions that were so far beneath what he could provide for you. He reached for the bottle beside him, not even bothering with a glass as he took a deep swig, letting the burn sear down his throat. But the fire did nothing to extinguish the inferno raging inside of him. You were better than this. You deserved better than this. And you knew it, too. That’s what infuriated him the most. You already knew. Deep down, you knew that you needed to come home.

His fingers tightened around the bottle, the glass creaking under the pressure of his grip as his eyes flickered toward the ceiling. He wasn’t even angry at you. No, fuck that. He was angry at himself. For not seeing it sooner. For letting you slip past his grasp. For allowing you to believe, even for a second, that there was anywhere in this world you could go where he wouldn’t follow.

But tomorrow, things would change.

His men would tear apart every extended-stay motel, every dingy roadside inn, every nameless building that took cash over questions. They would turn this city upside down if they had to. Burn to the ground if it meant you had nowhere else to hide. And when he found you—oh, when he found you—you would finally understand. Understand that running was pointless. Understand that no matter how far you went, no matter how well you hid, you would never be beyond his reach.

Because you two were meant to be. There was not a second that passed where he didn't feel like his soul was hurting being away from you.

And nothing in this world—not time, not distance, not fate itself—would ever fucking change that.

You weren't okay.

The days blurred together, melting into an endless cycle of exhaustion, uncertainty, and the quiet kind of desperation that settled deep in your bones. The first few days in Windsor City had felt like a small victory—finding shelter, getting supplies, keeping yourself and Sylvia fed. But that small sense of triumph had quickly faded, swallowed by the unrelenting, suffocating weight of reality.

Taking care of a newborn was supposed to be hard, you knew that. The sleepless nights, the round-the-clock feedings, the crying—it was all part of it. But this? This was something else entirely. There was no help this time. No Clara was coming every week. No safety net. No one to share the weight of it all. Just you, your daughter, and the constant fear of being found.

It wasn’t just the physical toll, though that was brutal in itself. Your body had barely recovered from childbirth, aching in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe. Every step sent a dull throb up your spine, your stomach still felt sore and hollow, and the bleeding hadn’t completely stopped. Some nights, after rocking Sylvia for what felt like hours, your legs would give out, sending you crumbling onto the stiff motel mattress, too weak to do anything but sob silently into the pillow.

But worse than the pain was the isolation. The crushing, unshakable loneliness.

You weren’t stupid—you knew something was wrong. There were moments when you would just stare at Sylvia, her tiny body curled against your chest, and feel…nothing. No overwhelming warmth. No sudden wave of love. Just exhaustion. Just numbness. You would hold her close, stroke the wisps of soft hair on her head, whisper promises of protection into her soft skin, and yet a voice in the back of your mind kept whispering, You’re not enough. She deserves better.

The intrusive thoughts crept in slowly, poisoning the already fragile remnants of your sanity. You can’t do this alone. She’d be better off without you. You’re going to fail her just like you’ve failed everything else.

Some nights were worse than others. There were times when Sylvia’s cries rattled something so deep inside you that it felt like your entire body was unraveling. You would pace the motel room in the dead of night, bouncing her in your arms, whispering, please stop, please stop, over and over again until your throat was raw. But she wouldn’t stop. And sometimes, when the exhaustion became too much, you would press the heel of your hand against your temple and just...wish everything would go quiet.

And then the guilt would set in.

It was a vicious, never-ending cycle.

The city outside was loud, alive, pulsing with a world you were no longer a part of. You had spent weeks avoiding eye contact with strangers, ducking into alleys when you saw police officers patrolling too close, keeping Sylvia hidden in the crook of your arm whenever you had to step outside. You barely spoke to anyone. The only real sound in your life was Sylvia’s cries—and even those were starting to sound distant, like they were coming from someone else’s child.

You had thought about leaving. About running again. But where? How much longer could you keep doing this?

And then, the worst thought of all—the one you kept shoving down, burying beneath layers of denial and shame.

Would Sylvia be safer without you?

You had started looking. Not actively, not with real intention, but the thought had taken root. When you walked past playgrounds, when you saw exhausted but stable mothers pushing their babies in strollers, when you saw couples cooing over their newborns, you would wonder—Could she belong to someone else? Someone better? Someone stronger?

You hated yourself for even considering it.

But every day, the idea grew just a little louder.

You were so, so tired.

And a part of you wondered if love was enough.

No one was coming to save you. There was no cavalry, no last-minute rescue, no miracle waiting just around the corner.

No Xavier. No Clara. No Tara. No Captain Jenna. These people were ghosts of your past now.

The harsh reality of it had settled into your bones over the past few weeks, rooting itself so deep that even the idea of hope felt foreign now. You had exhausted every possibility, every desperate fantasy of someone—anyone—helping you escape this nightmare, and yet each passing day only reinforced the truth: you were utterly alone. You had no family left to run to, no friends who wouldn’t immediately be dragged into the mess Sylus had created around you. No safety net. No second chances.

You could barely remember your parents. Grandma had died long ago. Caleb...well. He had gone out in a flame of fire and smoke. Right in front of you. Not that it would matter if either one of them was still alive. They'd also be ghosts of your pasts.

The only one who would come for you was Sylus, and no amount of running could change that. It was a reality you had tried to push down, to smother beneath the weight of exhaustion and survival, but it lingered in the back of your mind like a shadow, poisoning every fleeting thought of relief. It didn’t matter how careful you were. He would find you. He had the resources, the intelligence, the sheer obsessive determination to track you no matter how many cities you passed through, no matter how many times you changed motels or used fake names. And you weren’t stupid enough to believe otherwise.

You had done everything right this time—ditched all forms of technology, paid in cash, avoided cameras and main roads, stayed out of sight. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time. Sylus was relentless. If there was one thing you understood about him, it was that he didn’t know how to let go. You could only assume he had gone his entire life getting what he wanted through sheer force if necessary. It came with his job after all.

For the first week, you had clung to the fantasy of returning to Linkon, of somehow reclaiming your old life. The thought had been the only thing keeping you from spiraling completely, the distant possibility of waking up in your old room, of hearing the familiar sounds of Linkon City, of slipping back into the life that had been ripped away from you. But even that fantasy had begun to lose its grip on you. The truth was, it wasn’t real anymore. It never would be. Even if you could step foot in Linkon again, it wouldn’t be the same.

Your old apartment? Gone. Your job? Gone. The few acquaintances you had? They had probably moved on. And you? You weren’t even the same person anymore. That girl,—the one who had walked those streets without fear, who had gone to work and met friends for drinks, who had lived without constantly looking over her shoulder—was dead. She had died the moment Sylus got you pregnant. The moment you realized you weren’t going to be free again. Not truly.

The moment your body had become a vessel for something you hadn’t been ready for.

And yet, despite it all, despite the unbearable weight of that realization pressing down on you, you kept moving. You had to. There was no time to process it, no time to grieve the person you used to be. Sylvia needed you. She needed you to keep going, to keep running, to keep pretending like there was still a way out of this. But it was getting harder. The exhaustion ran so deep now that your body felt foreign, as if you were operating on autopilot, going through the motions without truly existing.

Every sleepless night chipped away at you. Every moment spent rocking her back and forth, desperately trying to soothe her cries while the world outside loomed like a threat, drained something vital from you. There was no one to pass her off to, no one to give you even an hour of reprieve. You hadn’t showered in days. You barely remembered to eat. Your body ached in ways you hadn’t known were possible, your postpartum wounds still healing far too slowly given how much strain you had put on them. But the worst part wasn’t the pain or the exhaustion. It was the creeping emptiness.

You had done everything right. You had carried her, birthed her, kept her safe, fed her, rocked her, cooed at her. You had done everything the books had said you should do. But now, every time you looked at her, there was something missing. You felt like a stranger holding someone else’s baby, like you were caring for something that wasn’t truly yours. It was terrifying, this quiet detachment, this void where love and warmth were supposed to be. You knew you cared for her. You knew you loved her in some way. But it wasn’t the overwhelming, all-consuming connection that the books had promised. It wasn’t the instant flood of emotion that the mothers in those online forums had described. Instead, there was just a dull ache in your chest, an absence of something you couldn’t name. And the guilt of it was suffocating.

You wanted to love her. You wanted to feel something other than this relentless exhaustion and fear. But how could you? How could you bond with her when all you saw when you looked at her was him? When every little feature, every tiny expression, was a reflection of the man you had spent months trying to escape? It was a cruel twist of fate that your daughter—your innocent, undeserving daughter—looked so much like the man who had trapped you in this hell. Her eyes, though still cloudy and unfocused, carried the same crimson shade that haunted your nightmares.

Her tiny hands, always reaching, always grasping, reminded you of his—of the way they had held you down, the way they had claimed you. And the worst part? The realization that followed, creeping into your mind like a venomous whisper: She would never stop looking like him. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much she grew, she would always be half his.

That thought alone was enough to break you.

And so, you did what you had been doing for weeks now. You shoved it down. You silenced the thoughts. You forced yourself to keep going, because what other choice did you have? But the cracks were beginning to show. The exhaustion, the emptiness, the suffocating weight of it all—it was pressing in on you from all sides, threatening to swallow you whole. You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep this up.

What had happened? Where had that determination gone? Just weeks ago, you had convinced yourself that you could do this—that you could survive, that you could be a good mother, that you could keep running and keep Sylvia safe. You had even felt like you were bonding with her, like despite the circumstances, you were beginning to understand what it meant to be her mother. You hadn’t blamed her for any of this. You had sworn you wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that she was here.

She had never asked to be born into this nightmare. But now, with each passing sleepless night, with every piercing cry that shredded through your already fragile sanity, that quiet, shameful resentment was growing. You hated yourself for it. Hated that you could even think such things. But the exhaustion was swallowing you whole, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, to force yourself to feel nothing but love and devotion for her, the truth sat heavy in your gut.

If it weren’t for her, you could’ve fled this city by now. You could be anywhere—miles away, in another state, another country, disappearing into the world as nothing more than another nameless traveler. If it was just you, you could be on a train or a bus, forging documents, blending in, vanishing. But you couldn’t. Not with her. A newborn couldn’t handle constant travel, the lack of stability, the absence of proper care. You knew that. No matter how much you longed for freedom, you couldn’t rip her away from what little security you had managed to piece together. You couldn’t put her at risk. She needed stability. Consistency.

She needed a real life.

But could you give that to her?

That was the thought that lingered now, creeping in at the edges of your mind like an infection, rotting through the last of your resolve. Maybe it had just been adrenaline keeping you in high spirits before. Maybe it had been the initial relief of escaping, the rush of defying Sylus and proving, even for a little while, that he couldn’t control you. But now? Now you were just tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired. And as you sat there, staring down at your once-again weeping six-week-old daughter, that exhaustion twisted into something ugly. You let out a slow, heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been building inside of you for days.

"Please," you murmured, barely recognizing your own voice—so hoarse, so drained. "Just stop crying for one night. Just one."

But, of course, she didn’t stop. She just wailed louder, her tiny face scrunching up in distress, her little fists trembling as she kicked against the blanket you had swaddled her in. The sight of her should have filled you with warmth, with affection, with that deep, unconditional love that mothers were supposed to feel. Instead, all you felt was guilt. A crushing, unbearable guilt that weighed down on your chest like a boulder. What kind of mother felt this way? What kind of mother sat there, staring at her child, wishing she could just disappear?

A bad mother. A selfish mother.

The kind of mother who didn’t deserve to have a child at all.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were too tired to cry. Too tired to feel anything but this aching, relentless numbness. Maybe this was postpartum depression. Maybe this was just what it meant to break. But whatever it was, it was eating you alive, and you didn’t know how much longer you could endure it.

Instead of crying, instead of breaking down, instead of giving in to the despair clawing at the edges of your mind, you did what you always did. You moved on autopilot, numbly going through the motions, pushing down the exhaustion, the frustration, the resentment, the guilt. Without a word, without even a sigh this time, you leaned over and begrudgingly lifted Sylvia from her crib. She fussed immediately, already rooting against your shoulder, little hands balled into desperate fists. You ignored the familiar sting of irritation that came with it. She always wanted to be close. Always wanted to feel you, to smell you, to know that you were near.

Just like her damn father.

She didn’t care that you were drowning.

She just needed you.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your muscles to unclench as you laid her down beside you in the bed. The crib had been a necessary purchase—one you had hoped would give you some space, some distance, some semblance of control over your own body again. But, of course, Sylvia hadn’t approved. She had screamed every time you put her down in it, as if separation from you was the worst kind of torture. And right now? Right now you didn’t have it in you to fight her.

Whatever. If sleeping next to her meant she’d actually sleep—and by extension, that you could finally get some rest—then so be it.

Without much thought, you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast and guiding her to latch. She did so immediately, her frantic crying settling into soft, eager sucking, the tension in her tiny body easing now that she had exactly what she wanted. You could feel the tug, the slight ache of letdown, but at this point, the sensation was so routine it barely registered. You laid your head back against the pillow, staring blankly at the wall. The dim glow of the motel’s neon sign seeped in through the curtains, painting the room in an eerie, flickering light.

The exhaustion weighed heavier and heavier on your limbs, pulling you down, dragging you under. Sylvia’s rhythmic sucking became background noise, lulling you further into that dark, dreamless abyss you had been craving for hours. Finally, finally, you let go.

Sleep claimed you.

But instead of the comforting emptiness of nothingness, you found yourself somewhere else entirely.

You weren’t in the motel anymore.

The cramped room, the peeling wallpaper, the rickety furniture—all of it was gone.

You were in his bedroom.

The massive bed, the silk sheets, the rich and dark furniture, the faint scent of whiskey and cologne that clung to everything—it was unmistakable.

Your blood turned to ice.

No. No.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Your heart pounded in your chest as panic seized your limbs. You turned sharply, expecting to see him beside you, expecting his arms to be caging you in, but the bed was empty. You were alone. But that didn’t make you feel any safer. If anything, it made it worse. Because if you were here, then that meant he was close.

Your breath came out in short, frantic gasps as you scrambled to sit up, clutching the silk sheets like they were a lifeline. Wake up. Wake up. This is just a dream. But it felt real. The weight of the sheets against your skin, the softness of the mattress beneath you, the cool air against your arms—it all felt too vivid, too tangible.

And then—

The sound of a door creaking open.

A shadow moving in the doorway.

And a voice, deep, familiar, and dripping with warmth that made your stomach churn.

"Kitten?"

There he was, in all his glory. Imposing, tall and staring at you with those deep red eyes of his as he got closer. You didn't answer him, just looked at him with pure disgust.

Sylus chuckled, but there was no mockery in it—just something soft, something almost…fond. "I suppose even in my dreams, you want to get away from me," he murmured, smoothing out the sheets beneath him with absent fingertips. "I can’t say I blame you, kitten. But it does sting a little."

You pressed yourself against the headboard as if the space between you could somehow make this less real. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of the situation. His presence felt too tangible—too warm, too steady. You could smell the faintest trace of his cologne, the familiar mix of cedar and spice, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"This…this is my dream though?" you whispered, eyeing him like he might vanish if you blinked.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, as if he was just as perplexed as you were. "Well, this is news to me," he said, exhaling a quiet chuckle. "I was just resting, and then… I ended up here." He glanced toward the door, frowning in thought before turning his gaze back to you. "If this were only your dream, would I really be able to remember how I got here?"

You swallowed hard. The room felt too still, too real. The weight of the blankets, the way the dim lighting flickered ever so slightly—it wasn’t the warped logic of a dream.

"No," you muttered, shaking your head. "No, that’s not possible. You can’t actually be here. You’re not real."

Sylus sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before his gaze softened. "Kitten…do you really think I’d say something like that if I weren’t experiencing this, too?" He reached forward, as if to prove something, his fingers ghosting toward your wrist—but he stopped himself, letting his hand rest on the space between you instead. "You feel it, don’t you? How real this is?"

Your breath was coming faster now, your mind desperately trying to refute what your body already knew. Theres no way.

"You're lying. This is just a dream after all. I can make you poof," you declared, squeezing your eyes shut, desperation clawing at your throat. If this was your mind's cruel trick, you could take control of it. You had to take control of it. Your breathing hitched as you concentrated, willing the image of him—him—to vanish, to dissolve into nothing but the formless mist of your subconscious. You envisioned him disappearing in a swirl of crimson vapor, fading from existence the way he always should have. This isn’t real. He isn’t real. If you could just wake yourself up, none of this would matter. You could push him away, just like you had in reality.

But then—

A chuckle.

Deep. Familiar. Amused.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

Your eyes snapped open, dread creeping up your spine as your gaze landed on him once again. He was still there, still seated just across from you on the edge of the bed, watching you with that same exasperating patience, like he had expected you to try something so childish. His was soft, but his lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Shit," you exhaled, your throat suddenly dry. Panic curled its cold fingers around your ribs, making it harder to breathe. You licked your lips, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use. "Are we…actually sharing a dream?" Your voice wavered, as if saying it out loud made it even more real, even more impossible to ignore.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes studying you with unnerving intensity. "It's not impossible," he murmured, his tone thoughtful, almost curious. His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings as if he were assessing them for the first time.

"If I had to guess, probably something to do with our Aethor Cores." His fingers absently traced over the sheets, his movements slow, calculated. You felt breathless as he met your gaze again, his eyes slowly lowering to your lips. The small shift in his demeanor made your stomach churn. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t taunting you. He was just there, existing in the same space as you, like this was something natural. Like it wasn’t utterly terrifying.

No. No. You refused to accept this. This wasn’t happening. This was just another trick, another cruel fabrication of your subconscious, it had to be. Your breath quickened as your mind scrambled for a way out. "No…no. This can't be happening," you muttered, pressing your fingers to your temples. A feverish kind of dread settled in your bones, creeping into every inch of your being like a toxin. Your body screamed at you to move, to run, to wake up.

"I need to wake up," you whispered, voice trembling, your limbs sluggish and heavy with panic. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over your own feet in your desperation to reach the door. If you could just get out—if you could just move—maybe this whole twisted nightmare would shatter around you.

But Sylus was faster.

Before you could reach the handle, a warm, firm grip closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Not forceful. Not rough. Just…steady. Unyielding in its purpose. His touch sent a jolt through you, your breath hitching as you froze, your body locking up in alarm.

"Wait…stop, please," he said softly, his voice carrying none of the usual arrogance, none of the smugness you had come to expect from him. It lacked the biting edge, the sharp confidence. Instead, there was something else. Something quieter. Something almost… pleading.

Your stomach twisted violently.

"Let go of me, you—you freak!" you spat, trying to wrench your arm free, but his grip held firm. Not crushing. Not painful. Just anchoring. Keeping you rooted in place as if he was afraid you would vanish the moment he let go. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, grounding you in a way that made you feel too much. It was too real. Too solid. Your chest heaved, your pulse racing wildly against your ribs, torn between instinctual fear and something else, something just as dangerous.

Sylus’s gaze was slightly tense, his fingers loosening slightly but not letting go. He exhaled slowly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Something that made your heart clench.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he murmured, and it was the way he said it—gentle, earnest—that rattled you the most. "I just…" He hesitated, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your wrist, his jaw tightening before he finally admitted, "If this is real…if this is actually happening…then this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks."

The air in your lungs stilled.

The weight of his words crashed into you, drowning out the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. You had expected mockery. Possessiveness. Some kind of smug declaration that you would never escape him. But this? This was something different.

This was longing.

Your breath caught in your throat, an unwelcome lump forming there. You wanted to shove him away, to break free from his grasp and put as much distance between the two of you as possible. But there was a small, terrible part of you—one you refused to acknowledge—that wanted to stay. Just for a moment. Just to pretend, even if it was only in a dream, that things weren’t so irreparably broken.

But pretending was dangerous.

So you did what you always did when confronted with him. You steeled yourself, lifted your chin, and glared at him with all the venom you could muster.

"So what?" you hissed, forcing steel into your voice. "You think this means something?"

Sylus just looked at you, his expression unreadable. "I don’t know," he admitted, voice quiet. "But I do know I don’t want you to run. I've missed you."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. You did want to run. More than anything. You wanted to wake up, wanted to pull yourself out of this suffocating moment before it swallowed you whole.

So you swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and forced the words past your lips.

"Then wake up," you spat. "Because I sure as hell don’t want to be here with you."

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours, filled with something deep, something you couldn’t name.

Sylus’s voice was deceptively soft, his tone laced with that maddening warmth that made your skin crawl. “Tell me where you and the baby are, honey.”

Your entire body tensed at the familiar pet name, the endearment rolling off his tongue like honey-coated steel. It made your stomach twist violently, resentment coiling in your chest. He didn’t get to call you that. Not anymore. Not after everything.

You winced, glaring at him. “No. Fuck off. Me and her are doing just fine without you.” You struggled in his grasp, trying to wrench your wrist free, but he didn’t budge—not even an inch. His grip was firm, steady, but not painful. It was possessive in a way that made your breath quicken, but not out of fear—out of something far more infuriating.

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if he were observing something fragile, something just about to break. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At your breaking point?” His hand slid from your wrist up to your forearm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. “There must be a reason your subconscious reached out to mine.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad at you, kitten. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “Please. I just want you to realize that I’m here. You can run to me anytime. Rely on me. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You’re mine. You can’t run forever. And it’s not good for you or her.”

Your stomach dropped.

Not good for Sylvia.

That one sentence lodged itself into your ribs, slicing through your defenses like a blade.

Your exhaustion clawed at you. The sleepless nights, the endless crying, the way you felt like you were barely keeping your head above water—it all came crashing down on you in an instant. And worst of all? He wasn’t wrong. You were at your breaking point. You were exhausted. And running with a newborn was slowly chipping away at you, piece by piece, day by day.

But he didn’t get to say that. He didn’t get to act like he cared. He was the reason for all of this in the first place!

“Shut up!” you snapped, your voice raw and desperate, squeezing your eyes shut as if that alone could block him out.

And then—the room changed.

A flicker. A shift. A violent flash of something new.

Your stomach lurched as the plush surroundings of Sylus’s bedroom distorted, reality flickering between here and somewhere else.

Your motel room.

Your fucking motel room.

“No!”

Your eyes widened in horror as the room twisted again, revealing glimpses of the small kitchenette, the peeling wallpaper, the crib in the corner. He was seeing it. He was seeing everything.

Sylus’s eyes flicked upward, locking onto the vision like a predator catching scent of prey.

You had to go. You had to wake up before he could commit any of it to memory.

You wrenched yourself back, mustering every last ounce of strength you had, your body burning with the effort as you finally tore yourself free from his grasp. The sudden force sent you stumbling backward, tumbling to the floor with a sharp gasp.

The dream shook.

Like the world itself was coming undone, spiraling into chaos.

Sylus stepped forward instinctively, reaching out again—but you didn’t wait. You couldn’t wait.

You bolted.

You scrambled to your feet, racing for the door, your heart hammering against your ribs as the dream warped and twisted around you. The walls cracked, the bed dissolved into nothingness, the air thick with an unseen force pulling you in all directions.

You lunged for the handle, your fingers barely wrapping around it before his voice cut through the chaos behind you—low, steady, unwavering.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched.

The door wrenched open.

“I will find you.”

And then—

Darkness.

Nothingness.

You gasped awake, your body jerking violently as you bolted upright in bed, sweat clinging to your skin, your heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

The motel room was still there. The peeling wallpaper. The crib in the corner. The distant hum of the city outside.

Real. It was all still real.

You turned sharply, your breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as you scanned the room for him—but there was no one. Just you. Just Sylvia, stirring slightly next to you, not fully awake.

Just a dream.

But your hands trembled.

What the actual fuck was that?

Sylvia’s cries cut through the silence of the dimly lit motel room, sharp and relentless, digging into your already raw nerves like tiny, clawing fingers. You clenched your jaw, inhaling deeply, trying—really trying—to muster the energy to deal with her needs. You had barely moved, just shifted an inch, and yet to her, it was as if you had vanished off the face of the earth.

"Shit..." you whispered, pressing your fingers to your temple, trying to keep your frustration at bay. But it was getting harder. Harder and harder with every night, every hour, every minute of this constant cycle. You had just woken up from that dream, your body still rattled with adrenaline, your skin slick with sweat. You hadn’t even had the chance to process what had just happened, to fully comprehend that Sylus was closer than ever before—and now, now you had to shove that panic down and deal with this. Again.

Sylvia’s whimpers turned into full-blown sobs, her little face scrunching up as if the world itself was betraying her. You sighed heavily, forcing yourself up from the bed, your muscles aching, your head pounding. Fine. Fine. Just get this over with.

You moved with the motions of someone who had long stopped feeling. Your hands automatically unlatched her onesie, pulling off the tiny, soiled diaper, tossing it onto the growing pile of them in the corner. I need to take out the trash, you thought idly, the realization empty and meaningless. Sylvia wailed through the entire process, her tiny fists flailing, her body squirming as if you were torturing her rather than helping her.

“Sylvia, please,” you muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing a fresh diaper and hastily fastening it around her. Your hands were shaking—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all pressing against you, bearing down on you with no relief in sight. She just wouldn’t stop crying.

You scooped her up again, her little body warm against yours, and just like that—her tears stopped. She nestled against you, her red eyes staring up at you in quiet contentment, a tiny smile curling onto her lips.

That smile should have done something to you. It should have filled you with warmth, should have stirred something deep within you, should have made the agony of all of this worth it.

But it didn’t.

You just stood there, looking down at her, blank and hollow. The weight of her in your arms, the warmth of her body, the fact that you were the only thing in this world that could soothe her—it all just felt like chains. A tether binding you to something you weren’t sure you could handle anymore.

You forced yourself to lay her back down, hoping—praying—she would just go back to sleep. But the moment she left your arms, the moment she no longer felt your warmth, the moment she realized she wasn’t attached to you—she screamed.

Not just cried.

Screamed.

It was as if you had ripped her from the only thing keeping her alive. As if you had abandoned her entirely.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands to your temples as frustration boiled over into something darker. “Sylvia. Please. Just. Stop.” Your voice was sharper than you intended, your tone clipped and laced with an exhaustion so deep it scraped against your bones.

But she didn’t stop.

She never stopped.

Your chest tightened, your breathing uneven as you tried—tried—to push down the growing resentment crawling up your throat. Why won’t she just stop? Why won’t she just sleep? Why does she need me all the time? Why do I have to be the only one doing this?

Your vision blurred, the weight of everything crushing you from the inside out.

And for the first time since she was born…

You wanted to run.

Not just from Sylus.

Not just from this motel.

From her.

You elected to just ignore her. You couldn't take it anymore. You picked her up, rougher than you intended, and placed her down in the crib with little care for the way she flailed and twisted, screaming in protest. You had nothing left in you, no patience, no warmth, nothing to offer her. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to comfort her anymore.

Your hands worked mechanically as you grabbed her pacifier and pushed it between her tiny lips, pressing it against her mouth with the hope that maybe—just maybe—this time she would take it, that she would finally let you breathe for five fucking minutes. But of course, she didn’t.

She spat it out almost instantly, her face twisting up as she let out another wail, her cries louder, angrier, demanding. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t some useless piece of rubber. She wanted you. She always wanted you. Every second of every minute of every goddamn hour. You, you, you. No one else. Nothing else. And she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

But you didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. Going to sleep,” you muttered, voice hollow, drained of emotion, of anything that made you feel human.

And then you turned your back on her.

She screamed. Of course, she screamed. You felt her cries drill into your skull as you climbed onto the bed, your body collapsing onto the mattress as if you’d been carrying a thousand pounds of dead weight. You grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it over your head, pressing it down so hard against your ears that the edges of your vision began to blur. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Maybe if you ignored her long enough, she’d finally tire herself out. She had to. Even she had limits, right? She had to give up eventually.

But she didn’t.

Her cries kept coming, sharp and insistent, her tiny lungs never seeming to run out of air. Minutes passed—five, ten, maybe twenty—you couldn’t even tell anymore. Your grip on reality was slipping, the exhaustion turning everything into a haze, like you were trapped in some endless cycle of sleep deprivation and screaming and frustration and resentment. God, the resentment. You clenched your jaw so hard it hurt, your fingers digging into the mattress, nails pressing against the fabric so harshly they ached. You had to stay put. Had to resist. If you gave in now, you’d just be teaching her that screaming would get her whatever she wanted. You had to hold out.

Then, it happened.

The static in your brain thickened. Your limbs felt heavy, your entire body sinking into the mattress, but at the same time, something pushed against you, something unnatural, something wrong. You felt yourself slipping, felt something creeping into your mind, curling around your thoughts, suffocating them. And before you could stop it, before you could fight—your body started moving.

No, no, no. Not again.

A sickening warmth spread through your chest, a soft pull dragging you upright, making your fingers twitch, making your arms ache for something—for her. Your mind filled with blurry images, flickering like a broken film reel. You, holding Sylvia. You, rocking her. You, soothing her. You, whispering reassurances, pressing kisses against her forehead, letting her curl into your warmth. Your hands moved without your command, your muscles tightening, preparing to reach for her—to pick her up—to do exactly what she wanted.

No. No, I’m not doing this. I refuse.

You gritted your teeth, fighting against the force pulling you forward, your body trembling as you pushed against it with everything you had. But the more you resisted, the stronger it got. The harder it pushed. It wasn’t fair.

You didn’t ask for this.

You didn’t ask for a baby.

Didn’t ask to be ripped away from everything you had known.

Didn’t ask to be hunted down like an animal.

Didn’t ask for this—this thing, this unnatural pull, this invisible force that made you crave to hold her even when all you wanted to do was scream.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You ripped yourself from the bed, stomped over to the crib, and without thinking, without stopping, without giving yourself a second to hesitate—

"SHUT UP!"

The words exploded from your mouth before you could stop them, the rage, the exhaustion, the sheer helplessness pouring out of you in one sharp, vicious outburst.

And then—

Silence.

For the first time in weeks, Sylvia stopped crying.

Wide, unblinking red eyes stared up at you, her tiny face frozen in an expression you couldn’t quite place. Surprise? Confusion? Fear? Your breath came in heavy pants, your whole body trembling as you loomed over her crib, hands clenched into tight, shaking fists.

And then, the worst part.

Her little bottom lip wobbled.

And her face crumbled.

The wail that came next was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t needy. It wasn’t demanding.

It was heartbroken.

A sharp, broken cry that cut through you like a blade, raw and devastated, like she wasn’t just upset—she was hurt.

She was afraid.

And just like that, the anger drained out of you, leaving behind something much, much worse.

Guilt.

You stepped back, hands flying up to your mouth in horror, your breath stuttering as you looked down at her tiny, trembling body, her fists clenching and unclenching as if searching for comfort. Searching for you.

What had you just done?

What the fuck had you just done?

You spiraled instantly. The realization of what you had done hit you like a freight train, the weight of it crushing down on you so suddenly, so violently, that your knees nearly buckled beneath you. Oh my god, what did I do? The thought was suffocating, an unbearable pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. The moment the first whimper left Sylvia’s mouth, small and pitiful, her face scrunched up in pure devastation, the dam inside you broke completely.

Tears flooded your vision, hot and unrelenting as you instantly reached down, scooping her up with shaking hands. She stiffened at first, her tiny body rigid in your arms, her whimpers turning into sniffles, her breath hitching in that awful, hiccuping way newborns did after crying too hard. It only made you sob harder.

No, no, no, no, no…

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—Mommy didn't mean it, Sylvia, please," you choked out, your voice hoarse and desperate as you pressed her against your chest, rocking her as if movement alone could erase what had just happened. As if the warmth of your body could somehow undo the damage. But the damage was done. You had screamed at her. Yelled at her like she was some disobedient child, not an innocent, helpless baby who had done nothing but exist. She was six weeks old. She didn’t understand. She didn’t deserve this. She had no idea why the one person who was supposed to protect her had just erupted in rage, her tiny world shattering in an instant.

Her cries didn’t stop immediately. They didn’t settle the way they usually did when you picked her up. Instead, she kept trembling against you, her sniffles and whimpers breaking through the silence like little shards of glass stabbing straight into your heart. Her heart was beating a thousand miles per minute. She was scared. Of you. And the realization nearly made you collapse.

Your mind reeled, frantic thoughts spinning so fast you could barely keep up with them. What’s wrong with me? What kind of person screams at their own baby? Have I really lost that much of myself? The self-loathing was instant and all-consuming, seeping into every inch of your being like poison. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint newborn scent that should have brought you comfort but instead sent another wave of guilt crashing over you.

Sylvia finally began to calm, her body no longer stiff, her breathing growing steadier. But you? You were anything but calm. You held her like she was the only thing tethering you to this world, like if you let go, you would disappear into the dark void that had been slowly swallowing you whole. Your sobs came in waves, silent at first, then broken, raw, shaking your entire body as you curled around her, whispering apologies over and over again.

She deserved better. So much better.

Your hands trembled as you ran them over her back, feeling the tiny ridges of her spine through the fabric of her onesie. She was so small, so fragile, and you had been hurting her. Maybe not physically, but this wasn’t what she deserved. Not a mother who was so exhausted and broken that she couldn’t even summon the strength to feel love anymore. Not a mother who snapped and lost control, who let her own misery bleed into the innocent, untouched existence of her baby.

You had spent all this time running, thinking you were keeping her safe. Thinking you were doing the right thing. But what if—what if—you weren’t protecting her at all? What if you were only delaying the inevitable? What if, no matter how hard you tried, you were the real danger here? Not Sylus. Not anyone else. You.

Your stomach twisted violently at the thought, bile rising in your throat. You shook your head, rocking Sylvia more urgently, as if you could shake the thoughts away. But they only grew stronger. More insistent.

You had tried. You really had. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much you fought, how much you sacrificed, it wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t safe with you.

Maybe she never had been.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

Maybe it was time to put her first.

Maybe…

It was time to give her up.

It didn’t take you too long to pack up a few of her things. Your movements were robotic, mechanical, as if your body was moving on autopilot while your mind refused to fully register what you were about to do. Diapers, onesies, some extra milk. The necessities. You didn’t want to burden whoever found her, but you couldn’t just leave her with nothing. You had to make sure she had enough, at least for the first couple of days.

The sun would be rising soon. The first hints of light were already creeping over the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in soft hues of purple and gold. You need to hurry. People would be waking up soon, moving about, starting their days. You didn’t want anyone to see you. You didn’t want to risk someone trying to stop you.

Your hands trembled as you shoved the last of her things into the bag, your breath uneven. This was the right thing to do. It had to be. Sylvia deserved stability, a real home, someone who could care for her without resentment bubbling under the surface, poisoning every interaction. You weren’t that person. You had tried—god, you had tried—but all you were doing was slowly unraveling.

You gently placed her in the stroller, making sure she was bundled up. The air was cool, a lingering chill from the night before, and you didn’t want her to be cold. She barely stirred as you adjusted the blankets around her tiny body, only letting out the faintest of sighs. She was exhausted from all the crying, her little face relaxed in sleep, peaceful in a way you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

Your heart clenched painfully.

Good. This would make things easier.

Easier.

That word felt like a lie.

Your stomach twisted violently as you looked at her, as you took in every tiny detail—the wisps of hair on her head, the little crease in her brow, the slight pout of her lips. Every feature was a perfect blend of you and him. She would never know the man who had given her those crimson eyes. Never know the grip he had on your soul. She would be safe. She would be free.

You turned away sharply, squeezing your eyes shut as if that would somehow make this less unbearable. It didn’t.

You forced yourself to move, rummaging through the motel’s tiny desk drawer until you found an old notepad and a pen with barely any ink left. Your fingers shook as you pressed the pen to the paper, the words coming out in short, shaky scrawls.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You stared at the words, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Was this enough? Would someone understand? Would they know how much she liked being held, how she hated bright lights, how she always nuzzled against your chest for comfort? Would they love her enough?

Would they love her more than you could?

A choked sob escaped your lips before you could stop it. You bit down on your trembling lip, trying to shove the emotions down, to lock them away. If you thought about this too much, you wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And you had to. You had to.

You folded the note carefully and tucked it into the blanket beside her, making sure it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. Then, without another glance, you gripped the stroller handle and stepped outside into the quiet, early morning streets.

This was the right thing.

You had to believe that.

Because if you didn’t…

You wouldn’t survive it.

You could've taken the car. It would have been faster, easier. But something in you resisted. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was some part of you clinging to the last fleeting moments you’d ever have with her. You just wanted one last walk—one final, quiet moment between mother and daughter before you severed the last fragile tie holding you together.

The world was still. The kind of early morning hush that made everything feel softer, untouched. The crisp air kissed your skin, the streets empty except for the distant sounds of the city beginning to stir. You glanced down at the tiny bundle nestled in the stroller, her little chest rising and falling with each breath, her lips slightly parted in sleep. The sight of her so peaceful, so completely unaware of what was about to happen, made your stomach twist in agony.

Your fingers brushed over her hair, trailing down to those two tiny, hard nubs hidden beneath the strands. You still didn’t know what they were. Maybe whoever found her would. Maybe they would understand her in ways you never could. Maybe they would love her better.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening painfully as you pushed forward.

You didn't know how long you walked. The city blurred past in a haze of rising sunlight and the rhythmic sound of the stroller wheels rolling over pavement. Your feet moved on their own, one after the other, guided by some force you couldn't name, until eventually, a towering mansion came into view across a bridge.

It was immaculate—pristine marble pillars, massive iron gates that stood open just enough for someone to slip through, a sprawling estate that screamed wealth and power. Whoever lived here was loaded, that much was obvious. And loaded meant resources. Stability. Protection. A child could be safe here, cared for. Given everything you couldn’t provide. The gate was slightly open. Perfect.

Your breath shuddered as you pushed the stroller across the bridge, your hands gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. Every step felt like dragging yourself through quicksand, like your body was resisting what your mind had already decided.

When you finally reached the grand front steps, you hesitated.

This was it.

The point of no return.

Tears blurred your vision as you carefully maneuvered the stroller up the stone steps, pausing just before the door. A car sat parked nearby, its presence offering a sliver of relief—someone would find her soon. Someone important. Someone who would change her life for the better.

Your fingers trembled as you tucked the blanket around her one last time, ensuring she was warm, protected. You reached into the small bag and pulled out the note, rereading over the words you had written as if hoping, somehow, they could say everything your heart was screaming.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You gently placed the note on her chest, your fingers lingering just a little too long. Please love her the way I couldn't. You didn’t write it, but you wished—prayed—that whoever found her would understand.

Would love her.

Would give her the life she deserved.

Your legs felt like lead as you stepped back, the weight in your chest growing unbearable. You reached for the stroller handle again—no, don’t do this, you can’t do this—but you forced yourself to let go.

You told yourself you were doing the right thing. You turned around.

You told yourself this was what was best.

Then why did it feel like you were leaving a piece of your soul behind?

Sylvia.

Your breath hitched as you stood at the edge of the steps, frozen in place, unable to take another step forward. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were closing in on your lungs, suffocating you. The early morning air was crisp, but you felt unbearably warm—your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. You had to move. Now.

But you couldn’t.

Not yet.

You turned your head just enough to steal one last glance at her. She was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Her tiny hands curled into loose fists against her chest, her little lips twitching in a soft, contented sigh. The note rested against the blanket, its corners barely moving in the breeze.

Your throat closed, and your vision blurred.

You knew you would never see her again.

The thought alone nearly drove you to your knees.

Sylvia...

A shuddering breath escaped you as you closed your eyes, willing yourself to be strong, willing yourself to accept that this was what had to be done.

"Please live."

The words were barely above a whisper, slipping past your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe to do right by her in ways you never could.

"Grow up happy. Make friends. Finish school, find a good job."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself in the pain, reminding yourself to keep going.

"Find true love."

Real love. A love that didn’t consume, didn’t possess, didn’t suffocate. A love that was free and kind and safe. A love that would never trap her in a cage the way you had been trapped.

"Just live."

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, willing the tears away. But they fell anyways.

"And I will try and live too. Despite us being apart from now on, I will always think of you. This moment doesn't define either of us."

It was a lie. You didn’t know how to live anymore. You didn’t know if you even wanted to try.

But if you told yourself enough times, maybe—just maybe—you’d start to believe it.

With a final, agonizing inhale, you turned your back to the mansion, forcing one foot in front of the other. Each step felt like a blade sinking into your heart, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

If you looked back now, you’d never leave. You went into a full sprint, not wanting to change your mind.

You had to leave.

Because Sylvia deserved a future.

Even if you weren’t in it.

[written-in-flowers]

The Places Between Us: The Naga King (OT8 X Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Fem!Reader | Side pairings: Hongjoong x Reader, Ateez x Reader

Word Count: 9k

Genre: Smut, angst, slight fluff | AU: fantasy!au

Summary: After her boat crashes, YN lands on the Naga inhabited Caper Islands. She's immediately taken to The King who is more than interested in Lord Kim's "special gift".

Overall Tags: dub-con, mind control, enslavement, kidnapping, forced breeding, monster fucking, sex work, mentions/implications of abuse, mentions/implications of SA, public sex, exhibitionism, humiliation, degradation, breeding kink, bigdick!Seonghwa, bigdick!Yunho, undead sex, sex w/ undead, belly bulge, anal sex, anal fingering, vaginal sex, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, squirting/vaginal ejaculation, slight size kink (height wise), overstimulation, facials, cum swallowing, choking, dom!ateez, sub!reader, tit fucking, sex toys, bondage, multiple partners, threesome, orc!jongho, naga!seonghwa, demon!hongjoong, dragon!yunho, undead!mingi, goblin!yeosang, lycan!san, lycan!wooyoung.

Disclaimer: These works are completely fictitious and for entertainment purposes only. They are not meant to reflect or label the members of ATEEZ in any way. The events within never took place. Thank you.

Prologue: The Curse < | > Part 2: The Dragon Prince

****

“-How did it get here?”

“Must’ve crashed. Wonwoo said he and the others found a shipwreck not too far down the beach. There’d been another one, but it was already dead.”

“What do we do with this one then? Kill it?”

“No, this one’s female. Tie it up and take it to His Majesty. Maybe he'll like it and give us whatever we want.” 

Every muscle in your body ached. Your throat itched and burned in each swallow, and your head pounded. Everything felt heavy: your head, your body, and your clothes. They’d been soaked through, and hardly dried even in the blaring sun. Four hands grabbed your wrists and ankles, wrapping thin rope around them before lifting you from the rough sand. The stick they hung you from made your body curve, hurting your already burning back. It was in this position that sticky, hot bile rushed through your throat and onto the floor. The salty water that had filled your lungs came out in harsh coughs that hurt your esophagus more. 

“Ugh, ew!” The higher of the two voices groaned, “Chan, it’s vomiting!”

“It’s just sea water, Innie,” the one up front replied in a bored voice, “It probably swallowed it when the boat went over. Just keep walking.” 

You didn’t hear footsteps. Instead, you heard the sound of something being dragged through the sand. You finished coughing up the sea water, which left you with a painful thirst. The salt dried up your tongue and mouth, so now it hung open in each breath. Unfortunately, some of it dripped onto your necklace which somehow survived the wreck. Then, a panicked thought hit you. The runestone. Lord Kim’s gift. In the chaos of the night, you’d forgotten to grab it. It’s likely at the bottom of the ocean by now. How would you convince The Dark Lord to help you now?

“It’s pretty,” “Innie” said conversationally. “Do you think he’ll keep it?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Can we keep it if he doesn’t?”

“No.”

“Chan, please!”

“I said ‘no’. You’re not responsible enough yet.”

“Yes, I am! I’ll take good care of it, I promise!”

“That’s what you said about the last one I bought you, and look what happened. The thing died after you stopped feeding it.”

“I won’t do that this time. I learned from my mistakes-”

The faint memory of your dream came back to you. It featured Hongjoong. You knew this because of the warm feeling in your chest. His head between your thighs, he’d said something. You wished you remembered. It might bring comfort to you now. 

You tuned out the conversation and tried looking at your surroundings. The trunks of palm trees, low, dense shrubbery and white sand gave you a sense of where you’d landed. You lifted your head forward to see a long blue tail dragging across the ground in front of you. It reminded you of a snake in how it moved from side to side, the fanned membrane sharp and thin in a neon-blue color. The suggestion of a dagger attached to the waist came into view, and you saw the shimmering scales going up the back into fair-skinned flesh. A Naga. 

Hongjoong once told you about the Naga of the Caper Islands. A small cluster of white, sandy islands, they were located in the far south of the kingdom where the sun always shined. He said the Naga people were quite primitive, but very skillful with magic. You recalled the gorgeous scaled skirt he’d bought from their market. It was magenta with a light pink and white gradient. You’d worn it with a gold top that made him drool. He’d promised he’d bring you here one day when things were ‘safer’. 

“-Hey, Chan! Hey, Jeongin!” A deep voice said in the distance, “Whatcha got there?”

“A human,” Chan answered. “We’ve brought it for His Majesty.” 

“Let me get a look.”

A lime-green and red tail slithered over, and you felt a pair of eyes surveying you. You wriggled when a hand started gripping your calves and arms. 

“Hm, it’s in good condition,” the third person deemed. “Where’d you find it?”

“On the beach near a shipwreck,” Chan answered. “We know King Seonghwa likes the females, and-you know-perfect opportunity to get in good with him.”

“Very,” he agreed. “He’s getting bored of that redheaded one. I think he might toss it soon.”

“He can give it to me!” Jeongin cried. “I don’t mind strays!”

“I already said ‘no’, Jeongin,” Chan replied sternly. “So, can we go in or what, Lixie?”

“You can go in,” he said. “He's hosting today, so he’s in a pretty good mood.” 

The creaking sound of doors opening came next, and the pair carried you past stone gates. The forest changed into a city of buildings made of stone and coral. Tails of different colors and lengths moved across the floor, and you got a better look at the “people”. Half human, half-snake, some of them stopped to watch you be carried through town. Their sharp teeth and claws intimidated you. You wished Hongjoong was with you. He wouldn’t be scared of them. 

“State your business,” a voice said ahead again. 

“We have a gift for His Majesty,” Chan answered. “A treasure from a nearby shipwreck.”

Once again, someone inspected you like livestock. They gave a soft grunt, and you were moved along. Chan and Jeongin carried you upstairs and into an open-roofed palace. Sunshine poured from in between the tall stone columns, burning the back of your neck and hair. As you drew closer to your destination, you heard music coming from behind a door. You knew a party when you heard one, and dread weighed you down further. The upbeat tempo of drums accompanied a female singer, who sang a high pitched foreign song. You could see flashes of color go by you as the two men took you through the party. The chattering crowd brought on visions of what could possibly happen to you. 

The thoughts were tantalizing. 

‘Oh, they certainly can be. Seonghwa might be a bit intimidating at first, but he’ll be gentle with you. Don’t fight it.’ 

You searched around for the speaker, but neither Chan or Jeongin had spoken. 

“What do you want? What is this?” A female voice said. 

“We have treasure for King Seonghwa,” Chan answered her. 

“Treasure, hm?” She studied you as the others had done. This time a hand squeezed your breast, and it sent shivers to your core. “Yes, very nice,” she hummed as her hand went down the curve of your back to your coat. She lifted it to reveal your ass. “Nice indeed. It's certainly nicer than the current one. I believe His Majesty will be pleased with your treasure. Wait here.”

As you waited, you noticed someone twirl by you. Out of the corner of your eye you saw a red haired woman dancing. She wore nothing but strings of pearls, golden cuffs and a pearl collar around her neck. When she spun around, you spotted a red brand in the shape of an octopus over a long trident. She was meant to be an erotic beauty that inspired desire. You knew because you'd been that yourself. You didn't think much of her until she bowed low in one move and met your eyes. The seductiveness she meant to exude vanished and was replaced by fear. 

“Myra tells me you've brought treasure?” His voice was smooth like butter, deep yet soft. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Chan said. “We brought it from the wreckage on the beach. We thought you may be interested in it.”

There was a pause, then he said, “Well? Aren't you going to untie it?”

“Ah yes! Yes, of-of course.”

Jeongin and Chan cut your bindings and you fell face first onto the ground. All the soreness from before amplified after being tied up, making your body stiff and heavy. When you did not get up right away, the two men scooped you up by the arms to keep you between them. Then you saw King Seonghwa. 

The figure in front of you certainly radiated the regal appearance of a king. He sat on a stone throne inlaid with gold, his white tail reaching down to the bottom landing. Short conch shells spiraled up from the golden crown on his head, rows of pearls and sapphires along the border; they matched his long necklaces and bracelets. It wasn’t until you got a better look that you noticed his arms. He had four of them. The pair on his shoulders kept his hands pressed together under his chin; the pair at his sides stayed on the arm rests of his throne. His appearance took you aback, and you found yourself drawn to him. 

“Hm,” The King observed you from afar, glowing aquamarine eyes staring down at you, “Interesting.” 

He stood up from his throne, and slithered over to you. He could easily overpower you with his size: two or three feet taller with longer limbs and broader shoulders. The image of him using this to his advantage flickered arousal. 

A large hand cupped your chin to lift your head. “This one is nice looking. It'll be an improvement over Talissa.”

He stared down at your body. You shuddered under his gaze, already sensing what ran through his mind. Long fingers trailed from your chin to your neck, then to your chest. He then stopped at your necklace. It’d fallen out of your shirt and coat, and now rested on your breast. His fingertip traced the moonstone, a small pang of panic hidden behind his eyes. 

“Where did you get this?” he asked. 

“It was a gift,” you replied. 

“From who?”

“A friend.”

Seonghwa seemed to know without knowing. He studied the crystal while his other two arms worked on you. They sailed down your sides where they gently gripped your hips. Goosebumps cover your skin at the light, delicate touches; the chills streamed down to your center where a specific heat radiated. The mark began burning slightly as he continued looking and touching. He’d find your mark with a few rips of your clothes. If you’re lucky, he has no idea what it means and thinks it’s a sort of slave brand. If you’re unlucky, he knows exactly what it is and takes advantage of it. 

Seonghwa took hold of your shirt, and with an easy rip, tore it open. Buttons popped off onto the floor, and your body became exposed to the crowd around you. He pulled at it until it turned into shreds on the floor, then his other hands did the same with your shorts. At home, you’d stood half-naked in front of crowds many times, but here it felt different. The men at home vied for your attention, throwing money and wanting a taste of you. Here, the creatures around you hissed and chuckled in amusement. Chan and Jeongin stared longingly at your body, but Seonghwa seemed unaffected. 

“Is it not to your liking, Your Majesty?” Chan asked, gulping thickly. 

No answer. Seonghwa moved slowly around you, and you gasped when he tugged off your bra. Your breasts out in the open, your clit throbbed as wind brushed the wet nipples. Jeongin stared with wide eyes and jaw agape, unable to look anywhere else. The guards on either side of the throne did very little to hide their interest. Their wandering eyes brought on both disgust and desire. You wanted to hide, but also tempt them. You wriggled around when two hands hooked on your underwear, roughly pulling them down your legs until they came off. Fully nude, your cheeks burned as the guests cackled and wolf-whistled. 

“Lovely,” a hand grasped your backside, massaging the flesh and giving it a smack. You suppress a moan. “Ah…what’s this?” His fingertip traced the hand-shaped mark on your lower back. It didn't burn like it's done before, but a sort of discomfort came with it. “The Sea God truly blessed me today.” Seonghwa, so much taller than you, bent down to your ear as he said, “What are the odds that one of Lord Kim’s slaves would wash up on my shore?” The question made the crowd around him chuckle. “I wonder if he’s sent you ahead as a gift. He knows how much I favor your kind.” He nuzzled your ear and said, Do you know what happens if you don’t soothe those delicious desires of yours?” 

“Yes…”

“What happens?”

“I lose my mind.”

“Yes, you would,” he said, gripping your breasts to hear you whimper. “You’d become a mindless sex slave…It’s all you will think about…It’s all you will want no matter the time or place,” he emphasized this by running his bottom arms to your hips. He brushed his lips to your neck, “Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

No, it did not. You’d lose all sense of yourself and your freedom. The image of you becoming a drooling, blank-faced zombie sent chills down your spine. His two other hands started grabbing your ass again, kneading and spreading it gently. His touch stoked the fire between your thighs. You clenched them together, humiliation burning in your cheeks. The creatures around you looked on as he touched you, smirking smugly as they watched their king seduce you. 

“You'll become Lord Kim's personal fuck slave,” he whispered in your ear, making sure nobody else heard him. “You'd bend to his will and fuck whoever he tells you to. He won't mind if I indulge myself a little.”

“Wait…I thought I just turned into a mindless zombie? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, angelfish, this is Lord Kim’s mark after all. It means you’re his slave. When your curse takes over, you’ll only obey him. I imagine that’s why he sent you to me,” he took a deep breath to steady himself. “Oh, I must thank him greatly when I see him again. You are perfect. Perhaps I can convince him to let me keep you.” 

“No way. I’m not going to be your slave.”

“Adorable,” he grinned, kissing your cheek. “Captain,” Seonghwa called to a creature in gold and white, “Take Talissa. I won’t be needing her anymore.” 

“Wha-Wait!” Talissa screamed as the Captain and two guards moved past you. “No, no, please! Wait! Don’t do this! Please!” 

You whimpered when a hand left your chest for your sex. Seonghwa carefully rubbed your smooth lips in light circles. He didn’t apply too much pressure or dip his fingers inside; he only idly touched. You couldn’t help wriggling in his arms. Behind you, the dragging sound of stone reached your ears, followed by the guests’ excited cheers. Talissa let out a horrified scream, pleading with the people holding her. Her chains rattled, no doubt restricting her movement. You imagined her heavy tears, the terror filling her insides as the guards led to her fate. Seonghwa did not hesitate to finally turn you to face the center of the room. 

“Talissa was beginning to bore me,” he said, still massaging various parts of you. “She’d lay there like a dead fish whenever I fucked her, barely reacting and weeping. I hate that. It’s like playing with a sick pet. It’s no fun,” he pressed his lips to your neck, licking the curve tenderly before saying, “I want to show you what happens to pets who bore me.”

The floor in the middle opened up to reveal a pool of crystal clear water. You didn’t see anything at first. You thought perhaps Talissa’s restraints might weigh her down and she’d drown. But, then the thing appeared. Through a hole in the bottom, the monstrous pink octopus swam to the top, its tentacles at least sixty feet and the thickness of tree trunks. Its eyes, pitch black and the size of boulders, stared at her angrily. Talissa, drained of color and squirming, screamed as the guards brought her to the pool’s edge. They threw her in without hesitation, watching in delight as she tried swimming from the long tentacles reaching for her. You could barely focus with Seonghwa still touching and kissing you. Talissa reached the side of the large pool, and tried climbing out before a guard thrusted her back inside. 

The octopus eventually grabbed Talissa, and you turned away. Yet, that seemed to only make it worse. The girl's high shrieks created brutal images in your mind: Limbs torn apart, innards spraying everywhere and blood staining the clear water as the beast devoured her. The crowd cheered in delight as the creature clearly won its meal. The smell of sea water and blood almost took you out of your desires, but Seonghwa easily brought them back. 

“Good pets get pretty jewels and treats,” he said, “Bad pets get thrown to Nessa. But,” he switched sides, sucking your lower neck until you arched against him, “I have a feeling I’ll never be bored with you. Come,” he pulled away, one hand taking yours, “Show me if you’re worth keeping around.” 

You thought he might take you to a private room, but nowhere in this palace appeared very private. Seonghwa brought you to his throne, where he put you on your knees. Glowing eyes lustfully stared down at you, petting your hair and tracing your lower jaw. Forced to straddle his tail, you naturally started grinding on the smooth scales bumping your throbbing cunt. His lower arms continued teasing your breasts, while the other two felt your back and shoulders. 

“Open up, pet,” he said. 

Lifting the fishnet covering his waist, he revealed a bump growing through a natural slit where a crotch might be. Seonghwa brought your face to it by the back of your head. The pressure forced your mouth to accept the velvety bulge rising from the hole. Salt touched your tongue, and rather than recoil, you greedily licked at it. The promise of sex fueled the burning arousal between your thighs. The feel of his tip pushing through to your lips becomes addicting. You lap at the curved head, swirling your tongue around it as The King softly groaned. His moans sent chills up your spine; the touch of his hands on your body tickled every nerve. You tenderly coaxed his dick out from its hiding place, wanting it however you could get it. When it came out halfway, you saw the pale blue shaft with its ridges and bumps. He was thick, unable to be held with one hand, and much longer than you anticipated. Tongue whirling around each bump and sliding along the horizontal lines, you knew Seonghwa enjoyed it by his low moans. 

“God, you're a natural,” he groaned, watching you. “I can’t imagine what you’ll be like when it fully takes hold. He won’t want you then. He’ll have to give you to me…” 

‘Keep dreaming, fish boy.’ The voice in your head said spitefully. 

Simply having him in your hands accelerated your need. Your hips rocked into the tail underneath you, producing mewls that vibrated against the soft skin. The burning mark You let the moans hum against the hard length, keeping the tip in your mouth as both hands worked the rest of him. It drove normal human men crazy, and it seemed to work on sea creatures too. 

“Look at it go!” Someone nearby laughed. “It's loving it, Your Majesty.”

“As it should,” he groaned. He shoved himself in your mouth another inch, smirking when you cried out. “It'll be my mindless little toy,” he grunted, pushing you further until he was halfway inside. He filled your mouth completely, making it difficult to breathe. “My dumb, pretty pet…”

“It will make a fantastic pet indeed, Your Majesty,” the person agreed. “It already takes you so well.”

“And aches for my touch,” he added, pushing in and out of your mouth. Your hands stayed on the rest of his shaft, remaining still to let him slide between them. “It rubs against me like a bitch in heat; that little hole desperate for friction. God, I love human girls,” his head tilted back as he picked up speed, using hands and mouth freely. “They have those little bodies; that extra hole for me to fuck; smooth mouths and throats…Why couldn’t Naga be made in such a way?”

“The Sea God made us in their image, sir.”

“Insufficient image,” he growled. “But, no matter,” his breathing became heavier, and you felt his tail swish against you, “It’s-It's perfect. It will be even more once her curse takes hold, and will pleasure you much more than your last pet.”

With his tail rubbing into you, you held onto his cock tighter when your orgasm slowly approached. Your moans, muffled by his length, became louder when he sensed this and started pinching your nipples again. You couldn't control yourself. You tried slowing down, but it became impossible once your arousal took over. All you thought about was his salty precum beginning to spill on your tongue. You wanted to swallow every drop. You wanted him deep inside your cunt, pounding you like nobody else had done before. Mouth milking his pulsing cock, tongue rubbing the underside, you trembled as it started twitching. You imagined that dick in your pussy, stretching you in a mind blowing way. The people around jeered when your body started trembling. 

‘Go on. Cum all over him for me.’ 

“Uh-oh, I think it's going to come!” someone nearby taunted. “It's shaking like a leaf.”

“Is the puny little human about to come for us?” another teased. 

“Go on, and do it. Show your master how pathetic you are.”

“Cum with me,” Seonghwa grunted, shivering in his seat as he pumped faster. “Cum all over-Yes, yes, like that.”

The guests laughed at your loud orgasm. You grinded for any sort of pressure on your sensitive sex. The bombardment of sensations tighten your muscles and you could only moan as Seonghwa held you to the base. Your pussy dragged along the thickest part of his tail, the constricting muscles sliding over your clitoris in each movement. It felt neverending. You kept shaking and moaning around him not wanting to stop. He gave no warning as his cock quivered and sprayed thick cum in your mouth. You wanted it. You eagerly pumped his shaft in time with his thrusting, squeezing hard to feel it throb in your hand. Every thick drop was swallowed greedily, even as it spilled from the sides of your mouth. 

“Haha, it's drooling,” someone said. 

“Clean it up,” Seonghwa breathed, pushing hair from your face. “Yes, just like that. Such an obedient pet…” 

You didn't hesitate to start licking him clean, catching the clear beads still leaking from the head. Gazing up at him, you saw he'd leaned back in his seat as he caught his breath. Even after having an orgasm, you couldn't stop grinding. You normally needed a few minutes before restarting, but not now. Even with your climax, and sensitivity, you felt ready. He knew this, and continued waving it for you. When you finished, you stared up at him with pleading eyes. 

“Now my tail,” he instructed, “You dirtied it. You clean it.”

Sliding down to where you'd been grinding, you lapped up the mixture of salt and your juices from the scaled skin. This amused the group watching. It didn't help when one tip of his fanned tail swatted at your sex and bottom. Your cheeks turned hot realizing what you'd done in front of everyone. Their taunting stirred your shame. 

“Lick it clean, slave,” a woman next to the throne sneered. “If you do well, your master may fuck you now.”

“That’s all it wants,” her companion, another female, said in a low rumble. “Do you think he will let us have a taste? Its cunt looks delicious. He let us have the last one.” 

“No,” Seonghwa said, not looking at them as you finished licking, “This one is mine. Take whichever you want, but not this one. On my lap, pet.”

You hoped he might enter you now, but instead he turned you to face the room. Four hands went back to caressing your body: two stayed on your breasts while the other pair opened your wet sex for everyone to see. It was then you realized to whom he referred. Talissa appeared to not be Seonghwa’s only ‘pet’. Around the room, other slaves stood naked and wearing gold chains and pearl collars. Some sat on the laps of other royals, while others walked around carrying trays of wine and seafood. Their misery was clear, but their masters did not seem to care. 

“See the benefits of a human pet?” He said to the group. “Two tight holes that leak so much when I touch them?” He started rapidly rubbing your swollen clitoris as you cried out and writhed in his grasp. “How could I not want this?” 

Two hands held your thighs apart while the other pair caressed your sex. While he circled your clit, he easily slipped two fingers into you. The people closest to the throne got a good view of his long fingers probing your entrance, stretching you in various angles. You noticed the men’s growing bumps under their loin cloths, while the women looked on with lustful eyes. You wished they looked away. 

“Stay still for me,” he said in your ear. He pushed his fingers deeper, and you grabbed onto his arms to steady yourself. “You’re doing so well for your first time. I cannot wait to see how you are once the curse takes over. I’ll have to ask your master if I can have more of you, if I cannot keep you.” 

“No…please…” you tried pushing his hands from your groin to at least get some relief from the pinching nerves, but to no avail. 

“But isn’t my cock pleasurable?” He pushed his shaft to your sex, “Aren’t I at least more preferable than the decrepit old Naga who slither around my island? It’s quite beneficial to be The King’s favorite.” He moved them into your sideways, “You’d be draped in jewels and fed the best food. You’d be praised and adored.”

“I’d be your slave,” you said through gritted teeth, wriggling around to try escaping his touch. 

“Only for a short time,” he corrected. “When your curse is complete, I’m sure Lord Kim will collect you and whisk you to the mountains, keeping you from the sunshine and my eyes. But, you’ll be well taken care of for now. Hmph, you should see how some of these lowborns treat their pets. I don’t think you’ve noticed them until now, but they appear quite sad.” 

“I don’t want to be your slave.”

“I didn’t realize you had a choice,” he then began pumping his fingers faster, pushing and curling them to the special spot inside you. He chuckled when you arched and quivered at his touch. “Besides,” his opposite hand started rubbing your clit again, “You’ll be so brainless that you won’t even realize it.” 

Once his fingers worked you long enough, you began trembling as a second climax approached. The people nearby cheered for your release, eager to see how the king’s new pet came. Your eyes squeezed shut and all senses became overpowered by your blinding orgasm. Seonghwa kept going as you coated his hands in your juices. Even when you finished, panting for breath, he didn’t stop. 

“Stop,” you pleaded, “It’s too sensitive.”

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” he said. “Get me hard again,” he pushed his shaft to your sex, “Use that hole to get me hard and show my court how lucky I am.”

They laughed as you obeyed his command. You wanted to stop but something kept you going. This thickness pushed your lips apart, and the ridges brushed over your sensitive clit. You whimpered, bucking wildly. You tried not looking at the people watching, far too embarrassed to see them. 

“No,” Seonghwa grabbed your chin to make you face them, “You have to get used to this. Pets don't get privacy. Everyone is going to see you like this all the time. How else will they know how you pleasure their king?”

“Please,” you whined, forced to meet eyes with certain people. You saw their delight at your humiliation. “Not like this…”

“Get used to it,” he sighed, kissing your neck as you slid over his hardening cock. “I can do worse things in private.” 

“Twenty doubloons she can't take it all,” a guard said within earshot of you. “Human pussy can't handle a dick like that.”

“You're on,” his companion nodded. 

“Thirty says she can,” a woman joined in, “But cries the whole time.” 

“Let's see if you can handle me,” Seonghwa said, grabbing the backs of your thighs. 

He lifted you from his lap and pressed himself to your entrance. Excitement and anxiety boiled together at the idea of penetration. You certainly could not take him, yet you suspected that he didn’t care. You braced yourself as he slowly impaled you on the first inch. His thick head pushed to your aching entrance, the hole clenching around the very tip for more. Your eyes rolled back as he added a second and third inch. The stretch burned through your entire body, causing a stinging at the source. 

‘It’s honestly the best feeling. I’ve been stretched by Hwa once or twice, and it was incredible. Just relax and let him take charge. He won’t hurt you too badly.’ 

You squeezed your eyes tightly when he went another inch, his groaning drowning out your strained whimpers and the guests’ chanting. 

“All the way! All the way!” they chanted, fists pumping the air to punctuate the words. 

You shook your head. You can't take the throbbing pain coming from his girth. You tried pushing away, but the pleasure he brought stayed your hands. 

“You can take it,” Seonghwa encouraged. 

“It hurts…”

“I know, but it'll feel good after a while. Make me happy and take my whole cock.”

He was not entirely merciless. Seonghwa went in a few inches before withdrawing to ease your pain. He did this multiple times, and even though it hurt, you still wished to have his full length in you. When he rubbed along your entrance, tapping it softly, you couldn't help wanting more of him. By the time he'd gone fully inside, you'd gone crazy from need. Even with the difficulty, you tried your best to bounce on him. He grabbed one of your hands to place on your lower stomach. As you plunged down onto him, you felt a slight bump hit that exact area. 

“Do you feel that?” He asked huskily. “That's me, pet,” he thrusted deep to make you feel him again, “That's how deep you're taking me right now.”

“It…It…I…Oh god,” you trembled, quaking in place as he continued lifting you up and down. “Oh god, it's so…”

You could hardly string a sentence together. Your mind focused on the dick pushing against your insides. People around you hissed or beamed when you finally started riding him, exchanging large gold coins. Seonghwa soon moved faster, holding you up as your body got used to him. The pain subsided into the pleasure, exploding and growing when one hand started teasing you again. His bottom hands let go of your thighs to let you freely ride him, and held onto your ass cheeks. He occasionally smacked them, adding to your pleasure, and pulled them apart to spit over the exposed hole. You held onto his tail to anchor yourself up, going faster despite the burning in your thighs and legs. Two thumbs started rolling over your ass hole, and you moaned louder. 

“You're so tight,” he groaned, taking a few gradual pumps, “And little. I love it so much.”

Compared to him, you thought, anybody would be small. Soon, you shook in his arms again. Seonghwa felt you tightening around him, and pumped faster, the bulge in your stomach becoming more apparent. He slipped a thumb past the tight ring, pulling in and out in time with his cock. Your eyes rolled back at this new feeling; you took one of his top hands to your breast, which he grabbed right away. 

“Are you starting to enjoy my cock, pet?” Seonghwa asked breathily, in awe of you on his lap. “Hm? Is your curse so potent that you don’t care anymore?”

“It’s…I…I…”

He laughed at your incoherent babble. Your third orgasm hit harder than the last two. It shot out of you and all over Seonghwa’s length, the trails leaking onto his heavy ball sack. You didn’t want to stop. He felt too good. When he pulled out of you, he placed you back on the floor where you opened your mouth. More salty strings flew up your stomach and breasts, reaching your outstretched tongue. You waited until he’d filled your mouth before swallowing it all. Like before, you started sucking and licking whatever remnants came out of him. 

“More…” you breathed against the head, lapping the slit where more beads fell. “Please…” 

“Keep going then,” Seonghwa breathed, tapping his cock on your tongue. “I’ll give you as much as you can ta-”

“-Um, Your Majesty?” It was the Captain who’d spoken, stiff and stern as he faced his king. 

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you but…” he glanced at you, then back to Seonghwa, “The delegation of Dragonites have arrived.”

Seonghwa growled, fangs bared in annoyance. “Show them to their quarters and I will be with them soon,” he cupped your face and pushed his tip back into your mouth, “Can’t you see I am busy?” 

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that, Seonghwa.” 

The revelry from moments ago dissipated at the sight of the speaker. A young man, as tall as Seonghwa, stood amongst a group of men in coal-black armor, carrying long silver swords. His tall, black wings stood out in the back of his armor, and he wore an obsidian and onyx crown. Long legs carried him over towards the throne. His sleeveless tunic revealed the expanse of black and red scales that went from shoulders to wrists. Dark hooded eyes stared at Seonghwa coldly before they followed his body down to you. You turned away in shame, but you still felt him staring at you. 

“Prince Yunho,” Seonghwa said, pushing black curls from his face, “How very like you to appear when you aren’t summoned.” 

“I am only here at Lord Kim’s request,” Yunho replied. “I wish for us to do this business as quickly as possible. Your island stinks of fish and sea water.” 

This made the rest of the naga hiss at him, which was returned by harsh growls from the winged soldiers around Yunho. 

“Better than the sulfur and brimstone of your region,” Seonghwa shot back. “As I told my captain, I am quite occupied at the moment. You may go to your quarters to settle in and we will conduct our business later.” 

Yunho looked back at you, his eyes scanning your nude body. “A new pet?” he inquired, wings batting as he reached you at Seonghwa’s tail. He gazed further down to see your mark, which you tried hiding by twisting your body. “Seonghwa, are you so cruel that you’d resort to putting demon curses upon your pets to keep them compliant?” 

“Don’t act like a fool, Yunho. You know whose mark that is.”

The pair shared a knowing glance, “It is you who is being foolish if you’re indulging without permission.”

“His Kraken threw her onto my shores. A gift. It’s as clear as day. It isn’t my fault he favors me over you.” 

Yunho scoffed. “More likely he wanted to soften you up for this deal. I’d be the first to tell him it wouldn’t work.” 

“I don’t need softening.” 

“I wager you’ve already given her a ridiculous pet name,” Yunho said, lifting your chin and wiping cum from your bottom lip. “What is it? Coral? Hydra? Sea Mist?” 

“I haven’t decided yet, but thank you for the suggestions.”

“You’re quite lovely,” Yunho told you, studying your features. “I’ve only tasted humans once. We don’t get many of them in my kingdom. I wonder…” 

“You can have any slaves you like, Dragon Prince,” Seonghwa hissed, “But not this one. It’s mine.”

“No, she’s Lord Kim’s, and you know that. Your ownership is temporary.”

“These two can never be in the same room too long. There’s no way they’ll share you.” 

“What is your name, sweet one?” Yunho asked you. 

“YN.”

“A name as lovely as you,” he grinned, brown eyes rimmed with gold glinting with adoration. “You should come home with me. I’d take much better care of you than this fish-head over here.”

A gold blade ended up at Yunho’s throat when he moved closer, and Yunho snickered. “So quick to anger,” he said, “And they say dragon blood runs hot. Alright,” he pulled away from you, “I will wait until negotiations. Maybe I can find some real meat around here and not shrimp.” 

“Good idea,” Seonghwa said, sheathing his sword. “Kim might have set up this meeting, but make no mistake, Yunho, I won’t hesitate. I won’t.”

“Neither would I, Your Majesty,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Farewell, sweetling. I’ll be seeing you soon.” 

The group of dragons flew out of the room in a V-formation, not intimidated by the Naga baring their fangs at them. Once he’d left, Seonghwa turned to the Captain, “Have the men keep an eye on him. If he even tries to double cross or disobey Lord Kim’s orders, cut him and his men down.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And take Pet to my chambers. See it’s properly cleaned and chained. I’m sure Lord Kim wouldn’t want his precious slave running away from us before his arrival.” 

“As you wish.”

On wobbly legs, you went with the captain further into the palace. Yunho’s appearance seemed to have distracted the nobles. They didn’t pay you any mind as the Captain marched you past them to the doors. You caught snippets of conversation.

“Can you believe they were invited here? What is Seonghwa thinking?” one man said to his companion. 

“The King mentioned Lord Kim. This must’ve been his idea. Only a man as mad as him would suggest the Naga and The Dragonites meeting under one roof.”

“Hush now, you shouldn’t speak that way! He might hear you!”

Lord Kim? Did they mean the demon who’d created your curse? The thought of him possibly being in the palace lifted your spirits. Yet, as you followed Captain to the bedchamber, your spirits weighed back down. The runestone Namjoon had given you was gone. You’d have nothing to trade in exchange for your freedom. However, Seonghwa mentioned you wouldn’t be just a zombie at the end; you’d be Lord Kim’s personal zombie slave. Namjoon must not have known that bit of information if he hadn’t said it. Something told you that the runestone would’ve made no difference to him. The image of your fate came back, but the stinging gradually pushed it out.  

It flared in each step, and you treaded carefully through the large palace. You felt yourself coming down by the time you reached a large room on the other side. A stone bed carved into a rocky wall was behind long fishnet curtains, an octopus etched into the head and footboards. Tall windows gave The King a perfect view of the beaches beyond the palace walls, where he could see the deep blue ocean he ruled over. You spotted a cushioned bed, food and water bowl inside a large gold cage. Yes, that’s where he intended to keep you. You wouldn’t stay there. You aren’t a slave. You’d get out of here. 

The Captain brought you into an adjacent room where you saw a large wall fountain spouting water into a large marble pool. Judging by the various bottles and cloths, this is meant to be some kind of wash room. 

“Clean up quickly,” The Captain said in his rough voice, “And return to the bedroom where I’ll clamp your chains.” 

“I’m not wearing chains.”

“Yes, you are.” 

He said nothing else and left the room. You grabbed one of the small cotton cloths and began wiping your tenderest areas. The coolness sapped out some of the burning, though the stinging indicated tears. This would happen again before nightfall. You knew that without needing to really think about it. You thought of Prince Yunho, who’d shown an interest that rivaled Seonghwa; perhaps they’d come to an agreement which involved you being a ‘gift’ for him. Your stomach knotted at the thought. 

You replayed what you'd done in your head, and couldn't believe it. Yes, you'd done many partners before, but that had been in private. Seonghwa forced you to do it in front of his entire court, allowing them to jeer and taunt you. You felt disgusted with yourself. Even when you'd scrubbed yourself clean of him, you still felt him inside you. That emptiness sparked a hint of arousal that you buried deep down. You'd fight this damn curse as long as you could. 

Leaving the bathroom, you found the suite empty. The Captain must’ve gone to get your chains and collar. You needed some kind of escape. If you stayed here too long, you would end up with no choice or free will. You'd become a slave to your desires. You refused to let that happen. Looking out the windows, you saw the dense tropical forest occasionally broken by ruins and clearings. The ocean went around the small island, intimidating as you realized how far you'd come from the mainland. Chan mentioned them finding a dead body by your shipwreck; your heart weighed down thinking of Jin, who'd been so kind to you. You searched for signs of the broken boat on the beach, but saw nothing except white sand. 

Looking down, guards remained at their posts in a square courtyard. It was too far down for you to climb or drop down into. You’d break your leg or worse. You’re sure there will be guards outside the bedroom at night, and more moving about the palace. Any chance of escape might not come for a while. You’d been considering simply jumping and seeing what happened when the Captain returned. He held thin gold chains attached to the bright cuffs in one hand, and a pearl collar in the other. Slowly, you inched away from him. 

You reached for a silver letter opener on the desk and held it out. “Stay away from me,” you warned. 

“It’s time to collar you,” he said, unconcerned by the sharp object in your hand. “Don’t make this difficult, slave. I have more important things to attend to.”

Slashing the small weapon at him, you growled when he easily grabbed your arm and twisted it. You spun around, grunting in pain as he kept you to his chest. Feeling the cold cuff on one wrist, you tried pulling away as he clapped the other half to your ankle; then repeating the process on the other side. The chains were long enough to make walking easy, but not so long that you could really reach for anything. It took several tries, lots of struggling and slaps in the face before Captain managed to get the collar around your neck. 

“You vicious little bitch,” Captain spat, grabbing you by the hair. “Let’s see how tough you are when your master punishes you,” he clasped a long leash to your collar then tugged on it roughly. “I’d spank the crap out of you myself if you were my pet; then I’d give you to my men to teach you your place.”

“Screw you, fish boy,” you hissed at him, spitting at his back. 

“Haha, that’s my girl.” 

A backhand went across your cheek when he turned around, stinging it and drawing a trickle of blood in your mouth.

“He’ll pay for that.”

He continued pulling you along back towards the throne room when somebody got in his way. 

“So, this is how Seonghwa lets his men treat his special pets?” Yunho asked with mock curiosity, coming out of a nearby bedchamber with another soldier. “He lets you man handle and hit them?”

“It was acting out of order, Your Grace,” said the Captain. “I am in charge of the pets’ discipline, and I was merely reminding this one of its place here.” 

Yunho moved around him and over to you. A clawed hand lifted your chin, his thumb tenderly touching your swelling cheek. “But, she isn’t Seonghwa’s, is she? Lord Kim is her master. Last time I checked, he doesn’t like people damaging his property. Seonghwa must not care too much about keeping his head on his shoulders.” Another hand suddenly went to your sex, where you winced from the pressure. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Poor girl,” he cooed, frowning at your discomfort. “Here,” he snapped his fingers at the soldier who felt around in his pouch. He retrieved a small black tub, and handed it to Yunho. “This will ease your pain,” he dipped two fingers into the translucent paste and tenderly spread it over your bare sex. A cool, tingling sensation blossomed at once, and the burning disappeared. “Better?”

“Yes.”

Yunho didn’t stop his touching. He stared down at you lustfully, watching you try resisting his fingers over your pussy. “Too bad Captain Sea Brain is near us,” he said, his hand sliding over your slit, “I’d finger fuck you here if he wasn’t. I bet your orgasms sound sweet.”

The dirty talk alone nearly ignited your curse again. Yunho saw this and smiled, “Does hearing about what I want to do to you arouse you? I have plenty more fantasies to describe to you.”

“Your Grace, please, I cannot dawdle,” Captain said. “His Majesty expects his pet back in the throne room.”

He reached around to your ass, grabbing it gently. He grinned when you shifted in his hand, “You’re already getting wet again-”

“-Your Grace-”

“-Would you like to come into my chambers? I can give you a little preview of what you’ll be having later tonight-”

“-My Prince,” one of Yunho’s soldiers said, “I know you are in the midst of your pleasures, but I’ve received word that Lord Kim is on his way.”

Yunho immediately whipped around. “He’s coming?” He asked, voice a bit unsteady. “He never said he’d be joining negotiations.”

“I suppose he wishes to see everything go smoothly.” 

“Or to make sure they don’t rip you apart fighting over you.”

The Dragonite huffed irritably, then turned back to you. “I suppose this will wait until later, sweetling.” 

He placed a soft kiss on your wounded cheek, then glided away from you with his men. Captain stared at him with distaste, though said nothing as he pulled on your leash and kept walking. Yunho’s salve did erase the pain, but his touches had brought stickiness to your thighs. You feared what Seonghwa might think if he saw it. 

“Your Majesty,” Captain called to Seonghwa, who still sat on his throne, “I’ve brought your pet back.”

“I’m afraid it will have to wait until later,” Seonghwa said in disappointment. “His Lordship has turned up, and I must greet him. You can put Pet by the throne until I retu-What happened to its face?” Seonghwa came to examine your cheek, and he looked at Captain. “What did it do?”

“It resisted,” he answered. 

He nodded, “The curse will take a while to fully form. I suppose it’ll be defiant until the very end, but no matter, I can fix that.” 

He smiled wickedly at you, then proceeded to leave the room. Captain pulled your leash towards a cushion next to the throne. It was more like a luxurious dog bed than an actual seat. He threw you onto it, then chained your leash to the throne’s armrest. You huffed as you settled into the plush, golden bed. 

The demon possibly responsible for your predicament was in the palace, and you had no chance of ever meeting him. If what Seonghwa says is true, then you won’t need to worry about that. However, you guessed Lord Kim won’t do anything to relieve your curse. He’ll let it consume you. You’d been lamenting over this when the flapping of wings caught your attention. 

“Hey, buddy,” you said to the black crow who sat on the arm. “What’re you doing here? Crows aren’t tropical birds…I don’t think.” 

It flew from the throne to the food at your feet. It began pecking at the shrimp side of the platter, “I can’t believe I’m here,” you said, watching it eat. “I’m supposed to be halfway to the northern port by now, but instead I’m stranded on this island. I don’t know how far I am from the mainland either. I could be days away, and by the time I get there, I’d be a zombie. They say Jin’s boat got wrecked, but maybe there might be a way to fix it and I can get out of here.” You looked at its glossy wings and said, “I wish I had wings like you. Then I could fly away.” 

You’d get your wish in a way…

****

The sky already turned mixes of russet red and faded gold by the time Seonghwa reappeared. His guests had dispersed, leaving the throne room empty and quiet. His eyes lingered over your naked body before he unchained you from his throne. 

“How’s my little pet been?” he asked, nuzzling your nose with his. “Did you eat?” He looked to see the half-touched plate near you. Your crow friend ate most of it, but you’d nibbled on the fruit. “That’s hardly enough to sustain you,” he said, wrapping your leash around his hand and guiding you to your feet. “You need your energy and strength for tonight.”

“Tonight.”

“My last night with you. It appears Lord Kim plans to take you now rather than let me enjoy you further. He’s allowed one more night since I managed to not rip off that filthy dragon’s head.” 

“Sorry, babe. I had to do it, but it’ll just be this one time, then we’ll fix this.”

Come,” he turned and tugged on your leash, “To bed. I’m exhausted.” 

You followed him to the doors, turning to see your bird friend flying to the ceiling. You wished it went along with you. Its presence brought stability and comfort in this crazy situation. Strangely, it mimicked the comfort Hongjoong always brought. The bird can’t do anything for you, but you wished it’d stayed. It also distracted you from the strange voice constantly speaking in your head. 

“Garnet is my best friend. Trust him.”

“Shut it,” you whispered, shaking your head. 

Seonghwa led you into his bedchamber, where you feared what he might do to you now that you were alone. While Yunho’s medicine did heal you, you knew Seonghwa could easily tear you open again. 

Seonghwa gazed down at your body once he shut the door. “You really are beautiful,” he said, admiring you in the light pouring into the room. “That witch must’ve been terribly jealous to place such a curse on you,” he moved over to you, cupping your injured cheek. “Even with this injury, you are the most beautiful human I’ve ever laid eyes on.” 

Four arms wrapped around you as he pulled you to his chest. His kiss started light and sweet before deepening into something more passionate. The taste of his lips stirred your arousal again, the curse boiling and fueling it. 

“If only I could keep you,” he groaned, lifting you to keep you at eye-level. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist so you didn’t slip off him. “I’ll admit I knew you had some connection to him,” he kissed down your neck, hands grasping your ass again and crotch grinding into you, “But not so strong. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so attached to a Cursed before.” He chuckled into your skin, teeth grazing it, “He would’ve killed me if he didn’t need me.”

His words caught you off guard. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“He said I can enjoy you tonight,” he grabbed your ass, kneading it gently to stoke fires within, “But he’ll take you tomorrow. Let’s make it count, hm?” 

“Who are you talking about? The Dark Lord? Is he still here? Can I see him now?” 

“He’s busy, and I’m going to get what I want tonight.” 

“Please,” you whimpered, fighting off your desires, “Not again. It…It still hurts…”

“I won’t use your pussy this time,” he promised, top hands cupping your tits. “You have two other holes I can enjoy in the meantime.”

“No,” you gasped, “That would hurt more.”

“Only for a while. I’ll be much gentler, especially with your ass,” he rubbed you up and down on his hole. “I had thought of a name for you,” he whispered as he brought you to the bed nearby. “Would you like to know what it was?”

“What was it?”

“Mariella,” he answered. “A name worthy of such a pretty face,” he tucked hair behind your ear and pecked your lips. “My beautiful Mariella. Oh, how divine you would’ve looked next to me…” he lamented, kissing you again. 

“You won’t now,” you said defiantly. 

“No, I won’t,” he said, pinning you to the bed. His tail pushed your legs apart, and you gasped at the small bump already sliding against you. “But, just for tonight, your body is mine. I will call you by the name you’d have, and pretend you’re completely mine.” 

“I won’t be yours,” you whined, trying to escape his grasp even as your body slowly started giving into him. “Never.”

He laughed, “Fiery. I get why he’s so in love with you.” He knelt up, his bottom arms lifting your legs to your stomach, “Let’s see how far I can stretch this ass of yours.”

It was a pleasure you’d experienced a few times. Seonghwa spent a good amount of time fingering and licking both ends. He said he liked your sensitivity and how easily you came for him. Seeing you shaking and clawing his sheets entertained him. Once he deemed you prepared enough, he pushed his throbbing length into your ass. It burned, as expected, and your eyes opened wide when he fully sheathed himself inside. You felt full. Your body stayed paralyzed in place as he smoothly went in and out of you. The two hands toying with your breasts and cunt only added more pleasure that made you see stars in every climax. His own orgasms came just as easily. 

“You feel so good,” he groaned, pulling you on top of him in reverse. “I can’t stop. God, I can’t stop fucking you. I don’t ever want to stop.”

“Do-don’t,” you moaned, too enthralled by the curse’s effects to realize what you were saying. “Don’t st-stop fu-fuck-fucking me…”

The sky was pitch black by the time he did stop. Sweaty, naked and exhausted, you laid on your front with your face buried in his pillows. Everything in your body ached as the Hand of Lust finally subsided, and you came to your senses again. You hated the damn mark. You hated this Naga king and how easily he broke down your defenses. His lips trailed soft kisses up and down your spine as he tended to your aching parts. The same soothing paste Yunho had given you was slathered between your cheeks, and he ordered a servant to bring food and water. 

“I am not so cruel as to not care for you after,” he told you, wiping strings of cum from your chest and stomach. “He’d probably kill me if he thinks I left you like this. Sleep now, my lady,” he kissed your forehead, “I’ll wake you when the food arrives.” 

‘My lady’? You didn’t get a chance to think on it before you passed out against the soft sheets.

“Did you enjoy my gift, Your Majesty?”

He sat in the window ledge, idly rolling a stone between his fingers. Hongjoong knew Seonghwa liked coming to his private tower after sex. He said the sea air made him feel refreshed, and he could see the stars clearly. Hongjoong felt guilty letting this Naga put his hands all over you, but it was better than witnessing you fall into madness. 

“Greatly,” Seonghwa breathed, moving to the window next to Hongjoong and enjoying the fresh breeze. “I understand why you favor her so much. I would too if she were wearing my brand.” He stretched all four arms as he said, “Though, I will admit I was surprised when a woman showed up. You’d told me it’d be a priest.”

“It was supposed to be.” 

Hongjoong glowered as he thought back to Haeyoung’s blunder. He knew he should’ve sent someone more stable minded to capture the vile priest. When Hongjoong learned of Moon’s hands in the abuse of fairy boys and girls, and the terrible experiments he subjected them to, Hongjoong had to stop him. He’d sent Haeyoung to place the curse on him, so then Hongjoong could send him on a tour of the north. The old priest would be put through the same torture he inflicted on others. However, it seemed he’d chosen the wrong person for the job. 

“Though, I appreciate your gift nevertheless, old friend,” Seonghwa said. “She was marvelous.”

He decided he’d let you sleep for now. Tomorrow, he will lift your curse and everything will be back to normal. He’ll go back to Gold Rush, curse Moon, and then go back on the road. You’d be safe in your small town, untouched by the outside world looking to infect it. It’s why he hadn’t brought you home yet. With the war looming over the north once more, he couldn’t risk the new king finding out about you. 

“And I appreciate you not chopping off Yunho’s head,” he replied. 

“Trust me, it required a lot of restraint,” he snorted. “Where will you take your pet now?”

“Home. Well, her home. She’s safer there.” 

“Very well. You know you always have a home here in the islands…If you wish for her to be truly guarded, the Naga are skilled warriors. I’d make sure no harm came to her while she was here.”

“Nice truy, Hwa.” 

“Fine, keep the beauty to yourself. I have dozens more just like her.”

“No. No, you don’t.” 

****

A firm, long-clawed hand clasped around your mouth. You had no time to take anything in before the figure hoisted you from the bed and out into the cool ocean air. 

“Let go of me!” you struggled in your captor’s arms, your voice breaking through their hand. 

“Hush, human,” the Dragonite soldier said, “And stop squirming. You’ll fall to your death and Prince Yunho will blame me.” 

You stopped moving the moment you saw the ground growing farther and farther from your feet. The dampness and coldness of the high clouds made you squeeze your eyes shut. You should have known this would happen. 

So much for having wings….

****

A/N: Damn, talk about plans going tits up, huh? Looks like instead of island paradise, YN's getting a volcanic vacation.

Also, if you guys want to be tagged for the different parts, just put a reply below. It'll help me keep track of everyone haha

[covenofagatha]

Hii, can you please do the second part for Professor Agatha x athlete student, where Agatha uses her connections in order to help y/n to deal with the abusive coach? Maybe he pushes y/n to swim again on the next day, but Agatha appears and stops him. After it, she uses her connections in the sport administrative department, so they would offer y/n a medical disqualification from the team, because after seeing a doctor it turned out that she needs to get a surgery too? The university will pay for the surgery and y/n will keep the scholarship to finish her degree but she is not on the team anymore. At the same time her relationship with Agatha grows. Can you please include a smutt scene with dom Agatha face sitting?

(The first part was super! Thank you!💜

(I know it's a big request, but huge thank you in advance if you write it!)

Heyyy sorry this one took so long 😅 thanks to everyone who asked about it and got me inspired to write the second part

Swimming into her arms (part 2)

Part 1

Word count: 6.3k

Warnings: face-sitting, oral, praise kink, masturbation, fluff

You need surgery. 

The doctor is saying other things but it’s all kind of a blur now. The words surgery and torn meniscus and six to nine months for total recovery swirl around your head and make you feel dizzy. 

“You okay?” Agatha asks, gently patting your leg. She somehow had connections to a great orthopedic and they were able to get you in the same day. 

The two of you still hadn’t exactly talked about what happened earlier on the couch. It was haunting every conversation, every simple touch. 

At least for you. 

The ever-feared, stone cold Agatha Harkness had kissed you. Eaten you out. Made you come all over her mouth. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say to stop yourself from thinking too much about the memory, lest you get turned on again. You clear your throat. “When will I be able to swim?” 

The doctor purses his lips and your stomach drops. “With a tear this bad, it will be months before you can even start light physical activity. To get back to your level of practice, six months at the earliest? And that’s if it heals correctly.” 

You blink tears out from your eyes. There goes your scholarship. College as a whole. Maybe even Agatha, too. 

And now you have to pay for surgery on top of it? 

“Um, if I hadn’t swam yesterday,” you ask, voice wavering, “would it still have been this bad?” You pray more than anything that he says yes. 

He frowns and Agatha stiffens next to you. “Based on what you said happened in the weight room about just landing on it weirdly, that wouldn’t have done enough damage alone to make it almost a complete tear. My guess is that the swimming and the walking after made it a lot worse. Mostly the swimming.” 

You feel like you’re going to throw up. Because of your coach, your entire life is ruined.

He gives you a brace, pain pills, and crutches so you don’t have to put any weight on your leg and schedules your surgery for a week from tomorrow. 

You hobble to Agatha’s car with your professor in silence. You can tell she’s deep in thought, while you are just angry and hurt. She opens the door for you and helps you lay your crutches in between the seat and the console so you can get in. 

“I’m going to talk to the athletic director,” Agatha finally says. “Tell him about what your coach did and see if they’ll pay for your surgery. And then I’m giving your coach a piece of my mind.” 

You laugh but it sounds hollow. She reaches over to squeeze your forearm. 

“You’ll get through this. I promise and I’ll be there for you.” 

“What’s going to happen to him?” you ask softly. You know you shouldn’t care and you are furious with him, but there’s still some mixed feelings. 

But not for Agatha. She scoffs and says, “With any luck, he’ll be fired and never allowed to coach again. He shouldn’t be, after he put you in danger like that. It’s not okay.” 

Seeing her like this again makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Thank you,” you say softly, “for taking me to the doctor, for yesterday—for all of it.” You know you will have to call your parents and tell them, and you’ll have to tell your friends and your teammates and your coach, but for right now, it’s just the two of you in this little bubble. 

Would it be too much for it to stay that way?

Agatha’s hand moves from the gear shift to rest on the center console, next to your hand. Her pinkie brushes against yours, like she wants more but won’t take it. 

“I’m really sorry about all of this. I know how hard you work and how much effort it takes to be a student-athlete. I’m really proud of you.” 

Even though her words are nice, you still laugh bitterly. “I’m not a student-athlete anymore, thanks to my asshole of a coach.” 

She turns toward you, face stoic. You finally notice that she still hasn’t put the car into reverse to back out of the spot. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?” 

“I…I don’t know,” you say, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Deep down, the truth rings out inside you: you were afraid what he was doing was actually bad and she would say something to the school. It’s ironic now, that maybe if you had opened up about him, you might not be in this situation. 

It was easy to use humor to deflect how badly he treated you. But if you were forced to confront it, you weren't sure you’d be able to keep it together. 

Agatha sees the reluctance written plainly on your face. “Do you want to talk about it now?” 

You shrug. “I mean, yeah, he’s mean. He told me that I was damaged goods and no one was ever going to want me, he’s called me a toxic ringleader before, he said I was a difficult person to get along with. He constantly tells me that I’m not good enough and that I never will be.” Your nose stings and your cheeks twitch but you force down the emotion. “I fucking hated stepping onto that pool deck. Everyday, I just knew he was going to tear me apart. If there was a bad set, I just knew he was going to be on me, telling me to go faster and work on my stroke but nothing I did was ever going to be enough. And I—” Your voice cracks and you break off when you realize that Agatha is staring at you with so much sadness in her eyes. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. One hand comes up to cup your cheek and you look away. 

“I used to really like swimming,” you tell her and tears gather and sting. You swallow roughly. “I used to really like it and now I hate it but now this is it. I’m probably never going to get back to the level that I’m at right now, and will I even want to get back in the pool after this? He just—he ruined it all and I’m going to fucking miss it.” 

The realization is a dagger stabbing you in the heart and you feel your cheeks dampen, taste saltiness on your lips. Agatha pulls you in for a hug and you ignore the jutting of the console into your ribs because it’s the only sort of comfort you have right now. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters into your ear. “I’m so sorry.” She strokes your back and it’s hard to believe that just a few hours ago, her mouth was on you and you were feeling so good, instead of this soul-crushing numbness. 

The two of you stay like that for what seems like an hour and when you finally pull back because you don’t want to get snot on her shirt, you see her looking a little glassy-eyed too. 

She sniffs and puts the car into reverse and the drive is silent on the way to Agatha’s house as you contemplate what you’re going to do next. You only have a semester and a half left in college, maybe you can scrape together your tuition and you won’t have to drop out. Hopefully your parents’ insurance will be able to cover most of the surgery and you suppose you’ll be able to get a job in your free time now. 

When she pulls into her driveway, she quickly gets out and jogs over to your door to help you. It’s not easy with the crutches and you have to awkwardly maneuver them over your body to hand them one-by-one to Agatha. You then have to rotate in the chair and put your good foot on the ground first before gingerly resting your other toes down, keeping your knee bent just a little. She assists you in positioning the crutches under your armpits and then you slowly but surely follow her up to the porch with her looking back every few steps to make sure you’re okay. 

Getting up and over the threshold of the door poses a little problem so Agatha takes the crutches from you and grips one of your forearms while you do almost a little hop to get up into her house. She gives you an encouraging smile as she returns the crutches and then you make your way into her living room. 

She points to the couch—the same couch where she went down on you and your cheeks heat up—so you obey and sit down, swinging both legs over the side to lay horizontally. Agatha is typing on her phone absentmindedly so you stretch to the other side of the couch, grab a pillow, and pack it under your hurt leg so it’s elevated. The brace is uncomfortably digging into you and your skin is sweating underneath and you rack your brain for anything the doctor said about being able to take it off. 

Agatha still isn’t paying attention to you and you’re fairly confident that it won’t mess it up even more, so you unstrap the velcro, unfasten the straps, and your knee can breathe again. 

The adrenaline, and maybe the pain pills, have begun to wear off a little and your joint starts to ache. It’s not as intense as earlier, but it’s a dull throb that spikes through your body and leaves you shifting in hopes of relief. 

You’re about to ask Agatha for a bag of ice when she lifts her phone to her ear and spares you a glance. She looks stern at first, but once she takes you in, her face softens. You give her a smile that she returns before you hear a voice on the other line. 

Her face instantly fixes into her teacher glare. “Hey, Dave.” Your stomach turns. She must be talking to the athletic director, Dave Herron. “It’s Agatha Harkness. I teach at Westview. Listen, I need to talk to you about one of the swimmers on the team.” 

She pauses and pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Agatha gives you another look and purses her lips before waving a hand at you and stepping into a room off to the side, the office, you’re presuming. You meet her eyes one last time before she closes the door. 

There’s only tidbits from the conversation that you’re able to hear now, and if you were in a better condition, you would go stand right outside the door to eavesdrop. But for now, you’re stuck with piecing together the fragments. 

“No, you need to do something about this!” she hisses. “...the doctor said practice made it worse…no, she tried! He wouldn’t let her…the things he’s been saying to them—to her…and now she’s going to be punished…” 

It warms your heart to hear her standing up to the athletic director for you, but you also hope she doesn’t get in trouble for going to all these lengths for a student. You can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen with your coach. 

“Okay, okay…yes, I think an investigation is very much needed…I’ll talk to him, send me his number…that is very good to hear, thank you very much,” she says and then there’s quiet. You wait for her to come back out, but you hear beeping and a dial tone as she calls someone else. Who is the “he” Agatha was referring to? 

Your coach? 

Would she really call him, though? You start to get anxious at the thought of her directly confronting him, especially over you. He’s going to be furious if he finds out that he could get in trouble just because of you. 

“Hi, Brad.” Your brows furrow—who is that? You really wish you could hear more of the conversation. Even on Agatha’s side, you’re still missing important bits of information. “I just got off the phone with Dave…yes, it’s because of swimming…he wouldn’t let her!...has to have surgery now and it’s at least a six month recovery…graduates in the spring and will lose her scholarship…” 

There’s a few more minutes of them talking, but as hard as you strain your ears, you can’t discern anything. Either way, knowing that she’s exuding this much confidence and is bossing these two men around—over you nonetheless—makes you squeeze your thighs together. There’s a sudden ache between them, not that that’s any surprise. 

There’s something about Agatha taking control that turns you on. In class, when she’d get on students for being late or a stupid answer, or the way she would command the room would have wetness pooling in your underwear. 

Would it be allowed for you to tell her that now? Or do something about it? You’re not exactly sure where your relationship with your teacher stands, especially after her eating you out earlier. On this very couch. 

The door to Agatha’s office opens as you’re rubbing your face because of how head-over-heels you are for her and your attention snaps to her. She’s guarded as she walks over to you before sitting on the edge of the couch, careful not to bump your leg. 

You scan her face. “Everything okay?” The fire in your stomach is slowly flickering out with how serious she seems, but it’s not completely gone because there’s a gleam in her eye when she looks at you. 

“I talked to the athletic director. He’s going to suspend your coach and open an investigation into him. Westview’s going to bring in a third-party company to do it and they’re going to conduct some interviews. I’m sure you’ll get called in.” 

Nodding slowly, you think over what she’s saying. “All of that just because of my leg?” 

“Well, there’s been other complaints about him over the years. Very much along the lines of verbal and emotional abuse, just like what he’s been doing to you. But now,” she says, nodding to your leg, “he deliberately put you in a situation where you ended up actually getting more hurt. You told him that your knee was bothering you and he still made you swim and now you need surgery, that’s very serious. He might even get fired, depending on what everyone else says.” 

There’s a pit in your stomach. He does deserve it, you tell yourself. “And I’ll have to talk to the investigator?” 

Agatha lays a hand on your good knee and rubs circles with her thumb comfortingly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But honey, I really think you should. He hurt you. In more ways than one, it seems. I can go with you, if you’d like.” 

You lean into her touch and close your eyes to soak it in for just a second. Then you shake your head and steel your nerves. “No, it’s okay. I should do it by myself. I can do it.” 

“And I talked to the athletic CFO, the money guy,” she adds with a smile. You prompt her with an eyebrow raise. “He says you don’t have to worry about your scholarship for next year, you can keep it.” 

“Wait—are you serious?” you ask with bated breath. It’s too good to be true. You won’t have to scrape together anything just to finish your degree. 

Agatha nods. “Yep. And they’ll take care of your surgery because you’re a student-athlete and it happened during school-sanctioned practice. So you don’t have to worry about anything.” 

Happiness and relief overcome you and you attempt to sit up straight and spread your legs so you can lean over and hug her. It works, kind of. You have to pull back after a second because the stretch hurts your knee and Agatha laughs. 

“I don’t even know what to say,” you admit. Agatha’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “I mean, thank you. For everything.” Your gaze drops down to your lap as you fiddle with your fingers. “If it weren’t for you, I probably would’ve gone back to practice tomorrow and fucked my leg up even more.” 

Her arm reaches over to tilt your head up by your chin. She strokes her thumb over your bottom lip and her gaze meets yours with a fondness you’ve only seen a few times before. “I told you I was going to take care of you, sweetheart. Thank you for letting me.” 

You smirk in what you hope is a seductive manner. “Well, can I take care of you? Seems fair that I should return the favor.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, playful lilt in her voice. Your eyes shine with eagerness and Agatha looks you up and down, heat in her scrutiny. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt your knee even more or make you feel like you have to do anything. We can say that we just got caught up in the emotions earlier and we’ll never have to talk about it again.” 

Chewing on your lip, you shake your head. “I don’t want to pretend that it never happened. I’m sure.” 

Her smile is genuine and she whispers, “Me, too,” before closing the gap and kissing you. Her hands clasp your cheeks and she’s holding you like water as she moves her mouth against yours gently like she doesn’t want to hurt you. 

You get impatient and slip your tongue into her mouth and she lets out a small sound of surprise before taking the hint and deepening the kiss. She sucks on your tongue and your teeth click against each other all while your core burns and aches. One of your hands winds up in her hair and the other on her hip, attempting to pull her closer, but when she starts to scoot forward, she accidentally bumps your knee and shooting pains race up your leg. 

Ignoring it, you palm her breast over her shirt and she hisses. She kisses you harder and rocks forward, putting some of her weight on you, and you break away because your knee is throbbing now. 

“Are you okay?” she asks and it’s so reminiscent of earlier when she had trouble fucking you. Only now, you’re not exactly sure how you’re going to be able to do this. 

“Yeah, I just,” you start, not sure how to voice your anxiety. You can’t lie on your stomach, you’re not sure she can put any weight on you without it causing pain, you can’t stand on your own. But you want her so bad you’re almost drooling. 

But Agatha knows. She tosses her hair back over her shoulder and gets off the couch before holding a hand out to you. Her lips are slightly swollen and pink, matching the tint that’s spread through her cheeks, and there’s heat in her eyes that sets your nerves ablaze. 

You take her hand and she pulls you up, putting your arm across her shoulders and helping you hobble over to the stairs. She takes you up them slowly, and while you’re sure there’s nothing sexy about you sweating and gasping for breath when you finally get to the top, her melodic laugh and the way she looks at you dissolves all of your worries. 

She leads you down the hall and to the first door on the right. When she opens the door, you get your first look of your favorite professor’s bedroom. The mahogany bed frame holds a king-sized mattress with lilac sheets and matching nightstands on each side. Across from the bed, there’s a vanity that’s cluttered, but neat. There’s pictures of the woods that are hanging on the light gray walls. 

“It’s very…you,” you say and Agatha chuckles before guiding you to the bed. You sit on the edge and watch her, still not sure what her plan is. 

Agatha reaches down to toy with the hem of her black blouse that she’s wearing, the same one she taught in earlier. It seems like a million years ago that you had her class. In just a few hours, everything has changed. 

She takes it off and your mouth drops open. Her abdomen flexes and you get the sudden urge to run your tongue over the lean muscle. And then your gaze travels upward and there’s a flash of heat through your body. Her bra is navy and plain, but it pushes up her breasts ever so slightly, making her cleavage swell. 

“Fuck,” you breathe and Agatha winks. 

The pain in your knee is gone when she unbuttons and unzips her pants and starts to inch them down her long legs. More and more pale skin is revealed, her thighs, her knees, her calves, until she finally kicks them off and stands before you in just her bra and black underwear. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, much like hers. 

“Please,” you whisper and she saunters over to the bed, pausing right in front of you, and gripping your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking at her face. 

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” she croons.

You pant out a desperate“Yes.” 

She smiles and helps you take off your t-shirt, revealing your rosy sports bra, and gently pushes your head down and the rest of your body follows so you’re laying on your back on the bed, knees still bent and feet resting on the floor. 

You’re salivating as she straddles your hips, careful to watch your face for any sign of discomfort or pain, but you think your leg could be cut off and you wouldn’t even feel it. 

Agatha begins to work her way up your body, knees pressing into the mattress and making it dip as she moves and she lowers herself down to drag her covered cunt across your bare stomach. Your breath hitches—you can feel how wet she is. She leaves a trail of stickiness in her wake that you don’t ever want to wash away. 

When her knees stop right under your armpits, you rest your hands on her thighs and stroke the skin, feeling her tense underneath you. She’s looking down at you, hair framing her face, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen someone more beautiful. Her dark eyes bore into yours and you shiver under the intense weight of her gaze. 

“Please,” you repeat softly, sliding your fingers up to play with the trim of her panties. 

She inhales sharply when you brush against her lower stomach and she shakily but cautiously moves her legs over your shoulders so her pussy is hovering right over your mouth. Even though the fabric of her underwear is dark, you can still see the wetness in the gusset and you suddenly can’t wait. You surge up to drag your tongue against the fabric and Agatha gasps loudly and her fingers fasten in your hair. 

“You didn’t even wait for permission,” she tuts and you have the gall to not even pretend to be sorry. Agatha’s tongue presses against the inside of her lip as she huffs before reaching down to slide her underwear to the side. 

Her smell hits your nose and you moan. Her pussy lips are swollen and glistening and you can see her clit poking out, just begging to be played with. Agatha drops down just so her cunt ghosts over your mouth and you wonder if she can feel how fast you’re breathing. 

“Can I—please, Agatha, I need to—” 

She tugs on your hair and nods. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” 

The instant your tongue delves through her folds slowly and tastes her sweet heat, you let out a low groan against her. Her head falls back, hair loose over her shoulders, but her grip on your locks remains strong. 

You flatten your tongue and do the same thing again and her breath catches. You tease around her clit, never giving her exactly what she wants, and Agatha begins to slowly gyrate on your face. 

“There you go, just like that, honey,” she says, encouragingly but also hoarse. Her praise makes your own clit pulse and you debate sliding a hand into your pants. 

Your tongue flicks against her clit and she makes a strangled sound so you do it again before sucking on it. Her hips buck, smearing wetness all around your mouth, and then you shove your tongue inside her entrance. 

“Oh, god,” she whimpers and drops more of her weight on your face. Her pubic bone is pressed against your nose so you tilt your head just the slightest bit to the side to take a breath out of the corner of your mouth. 

It makes you think of all the times your coach yelled at you for not breathing correctly while swimming freestyle. 

You smirk against Agatha’s cunt—you think you got it down. 

Her walls clench around you, throwing all thoughts but her from your mind, and you bring your tongue out of her pussy and drag it up to swirl around her clit. 

She’s becoming messier, liquid seeping out of her and into your mouth and onto your face. You suck on her again and she moans, not even bothering to take off her bra before she pinches her nipples. You can see them pebbled through the fabric and your own hips jerk and you wonder what it would be like to suck on those. 

“You’re doing so good, honey, making me feel so good,” she rasps breathlessly. Agatha’s eyes are screwed shut, hair bouncing, and her stomach flexes each time she grinds against you. You can feel the slickness between your thighs when you squeeze them together and you can’t help but sneak a hand down the front of your sweatpants and rest your fingers against your clit. 

Even the slight pressure makes you moan and Agatha jolts from the vibrations. You scrape your teeth against her clit as your tongue thrashes against her entrance and she makes a loud noise. 

When you curl your tongue inside her as deep as it’ll go, she gasps and grinds down harder. You can feel her clit pulse against your lips and your nose and the little sounds escaping your own mouth spur her on. Her wetness becomes a coat on the bottom half of your face and her smell and taste overwhelm all your senses until your head is almost spinning. 

“Such a good girl,” she groans and you press on your clit. Your walls spasm around nothing and your hips jerk. “You’re doing so good, baby, keep doing that. You’re so fucking good.” 

You keep alternating between sucking on her clit and rubbing your tongue against it and then shoving your tongue inside her. She rides your face with vigor, hand tightening in your hair and angling you right where she wants, and you decide to stick out your flattened tongue for her to use. 

She knows what you’re doing and she moans before settling her cunt down and rocking back and forth on you. Her clit drags against your tongue, throbbing, and you feel your own pulse. You begin to slowly draw tight circles on your clit and pleasure already begins to spread through your body. Her sounds go straight to your cunt and you feel your underwear soaking even more. 

“Fuck, baby,” Agatha whimpers and you rub your clit faster, your own hips starting to grind against nothing. 

Her rhythm on top of you starts to falter and fall apart and she’s now just sporadically writhing to take what she needs—you let her. You collect your own wetness from your underwear and press harder through the fabric. There’s a wet circle surrounding your clit and it just makes it easier to get more stimulation, even though there’s not a lot of friction. 

“God, you’re so good—fuck, sweetheart, I’m going to come,” she chokes out and then you feel another gush of wetness on your tongue and she pants loudly as she keeps riding your mouth through her orgasm. Her hands still play with her nipples and watching her head thrown back in ecstasy triggers your own orgasm from almost nothing and you buck up against your fingers and moan against her cunt. 

She keeps grinding until she becomes too sensitive and pulls up and you inhale deeply. Agatha moves a thigh over your head and settles onto her heels while she breathes heavily, looking down at you. You can feel how sticky and wet your face is, much like the mess in your underwear. 

“You did so good,” she says softly, reaching over to wipe your lips and you almost pull away so you can keep the taste of her lingering. You smile and lift yourself up to your elbows and then shift backwards to get the rest of your body onto the bed. 

Pain explodes in your knee as you bend it wrong and you gasp, eyes instantly watering. Your head drops back and you groan and frantically try to straighten your leg to get the ache to go away. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Hey, honey, are you okay?” Agatha asks, concern evident in her voice and you shake your head quickly. 

“It hurts,” you hiss. 

She thinks for a second and jumps off the bed before practically running out of the room. You stifle a sob when it only gets worse and she comes back not even a minute later with a glass of water and a pill between her fingers in one hand and a bag of ice in the other. 

With her help, you’re able to get fully on the bed and turn so you’re resting against the pillows. She puts one of the shams under your knee and holds the bag of ice there and then gives you the pain pill to take. 

You begin to cry quietly and she takes the glass of water from you, puts it on the nightstand, and then slides right next to you to tuck you into her embrace. She holds you while you shake into her arms and she presses soft kisses to your head. 

“Shh, I got you. I got you,” she whispers. “I’m right here, baby. I got you.” 

——

Six months later, the day after you graduate college, the doctor clears you to get in the pool. 

“Only twenty to thirty minutes,” he had told you, “and very minimal kicking. The moment your knee starts to hurt, get out and do your stretches. Make sure you ice it after. You’ll likely feel some light pressure and that’s okay. But do not push yourself.” 

You weren’t even sure if you wanted to get back into swimming. You had spent many nights talking with Agatha about it, but ultimately, she had convinced you that you should. 

Just to get some closure. And it wasn’t like you were going to compete or anything. Plus, it would be good physical therapy. 

“There’s my favorite swimmer,” your professor says when you get out of your car and walk over to her. She’s leaning against the wall of the natatorium, waiting for you. Your parents had taken you out for a celebratory brunch before heading home this morning and you hadn’t even mentioned swimming again to them. 

Only Agatha knew you were going to. 

You smile despite yourself and press a chaste kiss to her lips. Even though you’ve graduated, you still don’t want to get her into any trouble. 

Ever since the injury happened, you’ve practically lived at her house. She took you for your surgery and was right there after you woke up, as promised. She gave you more leniency than any other professor did and helped you constantly with school work and anything else you needed. She went to all your physical therapy appointments with you and held you while you cried from the pain or when you failed to meet a benchmark. She told you how proud she was of you for every slight improvement you showed and gently applied sunscreen to the nasty scar that stretched along your knee. Whereas you had a hard time even looking at it, she kissed it every night and told you that you’re so brave and strong. 

It made you believe it yourself. 

Agatha also was with you the entire way of the investigation into your coach. While you spoke to the investigator alone, your professor was outside of the room and pulled you into a warm hug the second you got out. And every time after when the investigator would call you to clarify or ask you about another teammate’s interview, Agatha held your hand. 

After the investigation dragged on for two months, your coach resigned before a verdict was reached. A hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless. 

She came with you to the championship meet in March to support your team and listened with an adorable smile on her face as you droned on and on about swimming and the girls at the meet and of course she didn’t miss the wistful look in your eyes when your teammates ran over to you or when you got excited about a fast time someone swam. 

And when you asked Agatha if she would come with you on your first swim back after hurting your knee, she kissed you and said, “Of course, honey.” 

“Just take it nice and slow,” she tells you now as she opens the door to the pool for you. The smell of chlorine hits you and the air feels thick, but you inhale deeply. Even though you’d never admit it to anyone but Agatha, you missed it. 

You set your bag on the bleachers right in front of lane one. She sits down and watches appreciatively as you strip off your shoes and socks, sweatshirts, and sweatpants to reveal your favorite lavender swimsuit. 

It’s your first time putting on your cap in six months and Agatha chuckles when the silicone snaps against your forehead and you wince. You give her a playful glare and she holds her hands up in defense. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” you say and she reaches over to take your hand briefly and give it a little shake. 

“Of course, honey,” she says and then smirks. “If I’d known how hot you look in your swimsuit, I would’ve come to all your meets.” 

You pretend to be offended but a giggle breaks free. “I probably would’ve been too distracted looking at you to swim fast. Oh, hey—are you the five-hundred freestyle?” 

Agatha looks confused. “What?” 

“Cause you take my breath away,” you say with a cheesy grin. She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Are you a slippery pool deck? Because I’m falling for you.” 

She snorts adoringly and waves her hand. “Go get in the pool.” 

You give her one last puppy-dog look. “Are you a flipturn? Cause I’m head over heels for you.” 

Agatha shakes her head but a smile peaks through. “You’re cute.” 

With a smile, you peck her cheek and grab your goggles before walking over to the lane. Once you’re at the gutter, you pause and take a deep breath before looking over your shoulder. Agatha gives you an encouraging nod and you put your goggles on and jump in. 

The water envelopes you and the world goes silent and you just float for a second. Memories come rushing back to you, both good and bad, but you push them out of your mind and pull yourself to the surface. 

You gently kick off the wall and when you take your first stroke, you’re sorely reminded how out of shape you are. Water slips through your fingers and it feels like you’re moving through molasses but the ache in your shoulders is a good one. 

You feel alive. 

Twenty minutes passes by quickly and just as the doctor ordered, you don’t kick much at all, but when you do, there’s only a slight twinge in your knee and it goes away the more you move. 

When you get out, you can almost feel the dopamine pumping through your veins and you realize just how much you’ve missed working out. 

“How was it?” Agatha asks when you walk over to her. She hands you your towel and you graciously take it. Freezing and soaking wet after getting out is not something you’ve missed and no matter how hard you and your teammates tried to get the maintenance crew to turn up the temperature inside, they wouldn’t.

“It felt really good,” you admit honestly and she beams. “I think I want to start swimming again, just recreationally. Maybe a few times a week.” 

She slings an arm around you after you wrap your towel around you and fasten it into your swimsuit straps like a dress and slide your shoes and socks on. “That’s awesome, honey. I’m really happy for you. Your leg still feels okay?” 

“Didn’t hurt at all,” you tell her happily and she squeezes your bicep. 

Agatha leads you to the door before snickering to herself. “Hey, baby. Are you taper? Because you’re everything I’ve been waiting for.” 

Your laugh is hysterical. “Did you look that one up?” you ask once you can breathe again and Agatha shrugs sheepishly. 

She holds the door open for you and you walk out before interlocking your fingers and tugging her by the hand to her car. 

“I love it,” you say and a smirk plays on your lips. “Now hurry up and take me home so I can show you my breaststroke.” 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1

[siri-ike]

(TW: the bats keep getting more reasons to think Danny was being abused, and the clueless one is oblivious to how things look.) (Also, this danny is cis, but circumstances keep making him look trans)

"I can't, I have to go. He knows what I look like." Even Danny could hear how half-hearted his plea was.

"It's not like he'll be looking for you while it's raining." Bruce suggested. "The forecast said it should be over by 2 pm. Think you could stay till then?"

Danny looked outside. The rain really didn't look that bad. Not 4 more hours bad. But he also really wanted a shower and dry clothes. He couldn't think it over much before the baby started crying. He hadn't been able to feed it. It must have been just as uncomfortable as he was. "Do you have diapers?"

Through some witchcraft and not at all Danny's own hunger, he got tricked into eating the most delicious meal he's ever had. None of it was poisoned, drugged, or undead. Ten out of ten. Danny giggled to himself at the thought, earning a look from a weary looking older teenager. The look wasn't suspicious. It was more like confusion. The same look people give you when they're trying to remember your name and end up calling you Inviso-Bill. Danny hurriedly finished his plate and was about to run off, but that was when the old guy, Alfred, came back with the baby in a cloth diaper. He must have cleaned off the rest of the vat goop, too. Danny decided to stay a while longer. Just to make sure the baby settled in. After that, he's gone for sure.

Alfred tried feeding it, but the baby just kept slapping away at the food. Danny wasn't too surprised. This thing had probably never even seen food before. It finally managed a lucky slapp and got mushy something all over the man's clothes. "I say, this is no way to treat a butler."

"Alfred," the boy across the table spoke. "Do you have a baby with you?"

"The baby is real master Tim. Go to bed." He sounded exasperated.

"Ha, I always thought Dick would be the first to get some girl pregnant. But you Jason?"

"Master Daniel is our guest, master Jason is at his own apartment." Alfred sounded like a man holding in violence.

Danny stood up. "Can I try?" He walked over to the highchair, grabbed the plate of mush, put a small serving of it directly on the chairs' tray table, and a little swipe of it on the baby's nose.

The baby looked confused as all hell. It grabbed the handful of goo on its face and examined it. Then, gave it a little nibble. Make sure it's safe. Naturaly, the stuff on the table has to be taste tested, too. Both turned out to be food.

Danny wiped the food off his finger but hesitated to turn away. It's not like he's mad at the clone or anything. He can't be. That would be wrong. Vlad is the only villain. That's who he should be mad at. It didn't choose to be made.

"Alfred," Danny mumbled, looking down at the baby. What's the sex? He wanted to ask. He tried to ask. But he couldn't.

"The bathroom door locks, so does the bedroom door, and there are fresh clothes next to the bath." Nightwing rattled off, way too energetically. "The room is all yours. If you follow the blue ming vases, you'll get to the living room. I'll come back in an hour to check on you. Do not fall asleep in the bathtub." He sounded like he was speaking from experience.

As if he could be dumb enough to fall asleep in the bath.

He could have sat in that bath forever. It was so warm, Nightwing put some kind of salt in it or something, and it smelled so nice. It was even strong enough to overpower his natural sent of "sweaty with a hint of death." Danny let himself sink in. He relished in the feeling of warm soapy water in his hair. He touched it, and it almost felt like entire clumps of grime and grease came out. He lingered below the surface for a while, much longer than any living person could. He didn't care. He wanted to enjoy being caressed by the water. He took a cleansing breath and, oh, fuck, shit, dammit. He pulled himself up, coughing and wheezing.

The doorhandle wiggled. "Danny, are you ok?!" Nightwing yelled from the other side. Had it been an hour already? The key hole made clinking noises.

"I'm fine." He called back, embarrassed. He got out and wrapped the towel around himself. It was so warm and plush. And wide too. He had to put it all the way up to his armpits, and it still reached below his knees.

Nightwing got through the lock and burst in.

"Not much use in a lock if you can get in anyway."

Dick saw the choke marks around the boys eyes, bruises all over his arms, and one on his left calf. "Did you fall asleep?" Dick stared directly at a set of stitches on his right inner elbow and two near his collarbone.

"Uhm, yeah. I did. Guess I was more tired than I thought." Danny lied. He was tired, but ghosts don't really need to sleep. He regains energy by engaging with his obsessions. Which admittedly he hadn't been able to do in a while.

Dick didn't buy it for a second. He's led the Titans long enough to know a depressed teen when he sees one.

"Can I get dressed?" Danny wanted him out as fast as possible. Dick left the room, but Danny suspected he was standing right outside. He threw on the nice soft red pajama bottoms and the loose white t-shirt provided. He was proven right when he stepped out, and Nightwing was still there. It's like this guy expects him to try and escape or something. Which he will. As soon as the rain stops. Danny looked to the window at the clear sky. Uh, 5 more minutes. "Do you guys have a library or something?" Look, if he's ever going to see a super old astronomy book, it's gonna be now.

Dick was a little taken aback by the question. If anything, he thought the boy would want to sleep. "Sure, it's, ah, down the hallway. Just follow me."

The library was huge. Bigger even than the public library at home. It was reminiscent of the library from Beauty and the Beast. He hurried directly to the science section. High up on a wooden shelf, he spotted a leather book. No name, but he recognized the constellation embroidered on the spine. The Fornax constellation. It's not a flashy one, just a square, really. It doesn't matter. Space is space. Danny would have just floated up there if he wasn't being watched. "I wanna see that one." He pointed twenty feet up. "Is there a ladder around here?"

Dick simply climbed up the shelves and brought the giant book down with him. He's the reason Bruce had the shelves reinforced. He's also the reason all the chandeliers are reinforced. This thing had to weigh a solid 20 pounds. He walked past Danny and placed it directly on a table with a thudd.

Danny eagerly blew on the cover, revealing a name in caligraphy. 30 more minutes can't hurt.

Danny looked so excited about the book that Dick decided to leave him alone in there. He needed to check in with the others anyway.

Bruce sat in his office/meeting room, the one he uses whenever the police visit. On his desk were two sets of adoption papers, from the bottom right drawer. One was practically filled out with all of Danny's information, but the other was mostly blank. Not counting Bruce's information, which is prefilled in on most of them. "Can you tell me when you were born?" He said in a soft jokey tone. The baby was more preoccupied with a baby book. "No? How about a name? Never had to pick a name before." He'd have to wait for Danny to wake up to awnser the rest. For the time being, he was fully content with canceling all of today's plans and baby proofing the mansion. "Who's there?" He pointed to the door, still in a baby voice.

Dick stopped hlering and came in.

"Danny asleep yet?"

"No, he's at the library, reading some book about stars. Look, B, I'm not sure how much we can leave him alone. He tried to drown himself in the bath."

"Are you sure?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. A purposeful movement. He's perfectly capable of keeping his face stoic.

"Pretty sure." Nightwing looked down.

"And he's in the library alone?"

"Dami's in the library, too. He's there all the time now."

"He started Journey to the west. He says they shouldn't be removed from the set."

"Did you put down a name yet?"

"No, I'll try to get one out of the boy. He'll stay if we get him attached."

"I was thinking the same thing, but in less creepy words."

The library was unusually cold for such a lavish mansion. Danny could even see his breath. He felt his eyelids get heavier with each page turned. The book smelled like dust, and his arms were reluctant to move. With a lot of effort, he turned one more page. The Fornax Constellation. Finally. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He had, to, find the, zztar, the right zzstazzz. Zzzz.

Damian stared at the stranger in his house. In his library. That Grayson had just invited in. And he dared fall asleep with his head in a 300 year old book?

He moved silently in order to rescue the book from potential drool and guaranteed skin oils and wet hair. He slid the book across the table and pulled out his cellphone.

"Father. Why is there a stranger snoring in the library?"

"This trespass will not be tolerated."

"That does not excuse such heathenus behavior."

"Some astronomy book. The over appears from the 17th century."

Damian huffed over to the book and looked at the cover. "There's no name. Just some gears and stars burned into the leather."

"Then remove him, and discuss it in the evening."

Damian hung up and sneered at the boy. It's, too warm in here, for condensation.

It didn't take long for Nightwing to return.

"Expect him to put up a fight?" Damian commented.

Nightwing looked confused, and then he looked down at his full gear. "I didn't have time to change." He looked over to Danny. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yes, Grayson. The first thing I do when I spot an intruder is have a pleasant conversation."

Damian has a way of testing Dicks patients. He picked Danny up with very little effort and carried him out. He felt cold. The room wasn't cold. He just took a warm bath. His clothes are dry. And yet his breath was visible, and his skin was freezing.

Nightwing carefully set Danny down in his bed and put a thermometer in his mouth.

*crack*

"What are you doing?!"

Danny kept chewing as he opened his eyes. There was a sudden hand in his mouth.

"Spit it out!"

He lazily stuck out his tongue, letting some shards fall. He swallowed and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt someone pick him up and start running. "Whas goion?" He slurred and tried to push against- wait. Tall, able to carry him easily, dressed in dark colors, the widest chest? "Vlad?" He found him. He cought him. And now he can get to the baby, too. How could he have been so stupid? He should have left forever ago. He pushed harder, this time turning a little intangible.

They both fell to the ground. Nightwing got up as fast as he could, but Danny was gone. There wasn't so much as a trace.

After the Nasty Burger incident, Danny went to live with Vlad under the promise that he would change. And he did, for all of two months before Danny discovered a secret basement full of clones. All except one of them were unstable.

Thoroughly betrayed, Danny takes the one stable clone and puts the rest of them out of their misery. Then he heads to Gotham where the local billionaire has a habit of taking in black hair blued eyed orphans. Fight fire with fire right? Or in this case money with money.

[k-aemi]

omg I'm so obsessed with your writing and fics, they are BEYOND amazing!! can I request big brother Kaiser x lil sis reader, like he get's home and he's super angry and needs to blow off some steam, so he just fucks her silly🙏🙏

kaiser michael ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ meine süße schwester.

smut, dub, mentions of abuse, blood, corruption, lost of virginity, manipulation, in/stepcest, view it however you like.

you and kaiser didnt have the perfect life. not with your mother leaving and your dad there to abuse the shit out of you and kaiser. though, the big brother he is, he always takes in your place when youd be the one in trouble. :(

but it didnt leave you safe, you got beatings too. youd cry to your big brother and hed only comfort you with cuddles, kisses and licking your tears away. promising a better life when you two would get older.

hed never let you leave the house because it was dangerous, but inside the house wasnt so safe either. you knew nothing of the outside world, you only knew how to speak. you didnt know how to read or write because you never attended to school. he says its too dangerous for a girl like you, they could use your sweet body for other uses. though its not like hes any better than those guys.

the rule still flew by when kaiser was eventually recruited to the bastard münchen team. both of your guys life became stable as he was able to make income enough to live comfortably.

the only rules applied to you was to never talk to any other guys. they only want you for your body, not your love like he does.

two, always just be naked in the house, plus its uncomfortable to be restrained by clothes in the comforts in your own home, well thats what he said.

three, just be a cute little sister and help around the house.

four, hes so stressed having to be top of the football team and making sure youre living the best life, tend to his needs at all times, like a kiss or cuddles!

and of course you obliged! your big brother always working so hard makes you guilty, youre so worthless all you do is clean around the house.

youre naked right now with an apron cooking up dinner for your big brother! youre not the best cook but you try your best because you know he gets all tired from football.

you hum in the makings of dinner, only to hear a loud bang at the front door. its kaiser! you go to greet him but something seems a bit off. his eyebrows are furrowed and theres this fiery look to his eyes.

“micha?” you waved the ladle around in confusion. you knew you should mind your own business but you wanna make sure hes in top conditions to do his best when hes out playing in the field!

the sudden impulse of kaiser throwing his duffle bag to the wall and fist clenching makes you jump. he always looks so scary when hes angry you cant lie, thats why you preferred to not bother him.

he lets out a low growl as he walks past you, taking hold of your wrist, tightly. you almost trip from how hard he pulled you.

“a-ah! micha wait ‘m making dinner—!” you just followed behind as you placed the ladle onto a nearby table. he doesnt even respond back to you, dragging you to his—or both of your guys room.

finally reaching his destination, he drags you onto the bed, making a creak sound. you yelp from how harsh he was being right now. hes sometimes mad, but hes never taken his anger out on you before if thats what hes doing.

he climbs onto the bed, his knees resting on the mattress as he takes his shirt off, exposing his tattoo that extended from his neck to his left hand.

“m-micha, what ya doing..?” looking up behind you with your back facing him while he exhales a breath, untying the strings of your apron, taking it off before throwing it to a random corner. now youre bare, all for him to see.

his chest flushes against your back before cooing you. “s’okay prinzessin…just let me fuck your pussy. had a hard day today.” he growled into your ear, massaging your boobs, occasionally pinching the nipple.

you can only squeal at the pain, hes gonna what to your what again? you dont understand the words coming out of his mouth. maybe you should of really studied more vocabulary during your free time so you can learn these slangs hes using!

he marks up your neck, trailing kisses to your shoulders and jawline. “g’na hurt for a bit but you can handle it f’me yeah? for your big brother?” he starts stimulating your clit and you whine pathetically loud. what is this sensation?

“micha feels weird!” you grab hold of his wrist to push back, but you think you just fueled his anger more. “damn it [name] just fucking let me. i spoil you rotten and you cant even let me do this?!” your body twitched when he raised his voice at you. you hate it, it reminds you of your father.

kaiser softens up only a bit when he hears your sniffles, he clicks his tongue in annoyance. “if you listened to me i wouldnt have done that. you g’na listen now?” he licks up your tears just like how he used to back then. using his fingers to wipe the other side of your cheek.

“y-yes ‘m sorry micha.” you mumbled out as your sniffles overpowered your voice, you can barely talk due to your emotional state right now.

“good, knew i could count on you.” he sucks on your delicate neck, nibbling as he rubs his growing bulge on your ass. you feel a bit weird when he grinds on you, letting out little soft breaths and grunts when he does it.

you let out little whimpers as his bigger self towers over your figure, you dont even know whats going on, it feels uncomfortable having that hard thing against you.

you let out a gasp when his fingers stimulates your bud again. letting out soft moans. “ah—micha…mgh!” he grins enjoying the little moans that emit from your lips. he rubs the sensitive bud in a circular motion, speeding up the process as the second came.

you only whine. you wan’ him to stop or maybe just slow down, but you knew hed get mad again. “youre so wet. you want it dont you?” he gives it a slap and you let out a pathetic yelp.

kaiser flips you over, finally staring at your teary eyed face. he loves the sight, he wonders if he can see his cute little sister in more despair as he continues this. he doesnt mean harm, he just thinks its his reward for giving you such a good life, running away from the past.

“want my fat cock in your sweet pussy yeah?” he spreads your pussy lips apart and you let out ragged breaths. you dont understand what hes saying!! kaisers vocabulary and intelligence definitely exceeded yours, hes a football player! hes gonna have to learn how to read and write.

your trail of thoughts is interrupted when you feel a long wet muscle lick your pussy. your thighs quiver as it closed in on kaisers head. “w-what you doing micha!” but he ignores your whines and spreads your legs forcefully.

hes eating you out like some bread crust rust. sucking on the bud and you feel his tongue prodding at your hole. you squeal grabbing hold of his hair, gripping it so hard you might pull off his scalp.

he latches off your pussy with a pop before unbuckling his pants, pulling down his pants to reveal his cock that springs up and down. “should be wet enough.” he says slapping his cock head on your pussy, coating it with your slick.

the sight of his cock intimidated you, what is that! why is it so big and long. “sorry prinzessin. gotta do this real quick.” he leans forward to kiss you, only to muffle that blood curling scream you let out when he intrudes your warm walls with his cock.

your moans and whines are muffled with his kisses, tears spill from your eyes and theyre shut closed. he latches off your lips as he coos you, patting your head. “we got through the hard part, youre doing so good.”

leaning back his hunger only fueled more when he can see that visible bulge forming in your stomach and youre crazy to think hes gonna be gentle now. well not like he was going to in the first place anyways.

“you see how good you take me?” his hand roams over the bulged that formed in your stomach every time he pulled out just to go right back in. it stings, but you gotta comply before hes gonna get super mad and maybe hit you like dad did.

you only nod weakly, your brain becomes mushy from this new sensation youre feeling. youre completely stretched out and you dont think you can adjust to his size.

kaiser smirks to himself, seeing blood spill onto his cock. fuck he thinks thats so hot, he popped your cherry. the smell fills his nostrils and he cant get enough of it. his elbows rest on both sides of your head and he starts his rough thrust, leaving you into a mess.

“a-ah! micha’! wait!” your toes curl and your hands clawed at his back. he loves it, the way youre scratching his back means hes making you feel sooo fucking good.

he wishes he put you on pills of some sort, he wants to cum inside of you so bad. your gummy walls are pulsing inside of him and the feeling is the best. the best pussy ever is his baby sisters.

his thrusts are so strong and he doesn’t even rest to let you catch your breath. all you can do is cry and drool from the feeling. big brothers so mean, hes hurting you and making you cry!

smell of sweat fill the room and it gets hot. you feel knot in your stomach and youre not sure what it is, its the same feeling when you would need to relieve yourself, but somehow a tad different.

“m-micha’ i feel something in my stomach.” your voice barely came to a whisper, its so difficult to talk when big brothers cock making you feel all light headed.

“thats my cock making you feel good prinzessin. s’okay just let it out.” he growled, fastening his pace if that was even possible at this point. there was this mixture of pleasure and pain somehow, you cant wrap your finger around it.

you tighten around his cock and he knows. he knows youre gonna cum. “h-hold my hand please..” kaiser in the heat of the moment intertwined his hands with yours, continuing his thrusts, letting out ragged breaths.

not long, something squirts out of your pussy and kaiser can only chuckled to himself. seeing the way your juices just continued to spill onto the sheets and on his cock made him almost cum. as a matter of fact, he should really start pulling out soon.

just a little more…he swears hell pull out he just wants to indulge in your sensitive walls right now. god you feel so goddamn good. hes having sex with you everyday. he tells himself he’s stupid for not doing this in the first place with you.

“agh—fuck!” he grunts in annoyance before pulling out, jerking his cock as his hot cum spills to all the way to your face<3

you dont even pay no attention to it, youre so out of your mind, catching up with your breath. kaisers dick falls limp and he lays besides you. tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“love you s'much."

was it too much? i dunno, hope you guys request more people for me to write :D i see my favorite writers liking my blog o(≧▽≦)o you guys really like the step sibling tropes , also since i had two other similar requests pls take this instead hope its okay with you anons! i dont wanna rewrite too many things over and over (-ω-、)

blue divider: kodaswrld

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 5)

Summary: Y/N Undersee thought the games were over after becoming a victor. Unfortunately, life outside the arena has become just as dangerous. Prequel to Moves & Countermoves

Trigger warning: forced prostitution, explicit sexual content, alcohol abuse and other mentions of trauma. 18+ ONLY

Part 4

“Sorry I…freaked out.” Are the first words out of Y/N’s mouth, the moment she realizes that Haymitch is awake.

“I’m sorry you’re in pain.” If she were bleeding on the outside, there are things he could do to help. A bandage, a tourniquet, kiss it better. There is almost nothing he can do to stop her from bleeding on the inside.

“It hurts less when you’re here.”

“I’ll be here.” Haymitch vows. He’ll hold his hand over her broken heart and apply steady pressure to her wound. He’ll make it better.

“But you won’t let me get too close.”

“You’re plenty close.” This is all there is. All that’s left of me and it’s yours.

“Snow’s gonna use me against you anyway.”

Haymitch huffs a laugh. “I’m very aware.”

“I meant what I said.” Y/N reminds him, “I won’t leave.”

“I’m not afraid of you leaving.” Good on you if you get away.

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Haymitch pauses for a long moment to consider, weighing the risks and benefits of telling her everything.

Forgive me, Lenore Dove and know that I do not love her like all-fire. I love her much gentler than that. No more and no less. I love her softly as the mangled sunflower held precariously together with Maysilee’s glue made of flour and spit.

“There was a girl…someone I loved.”

Y/N nods.

“Snow killed her too, not just my family.”

“Haymitch,” Y/N sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Being happy with you feels like I’m-”

“Betraying her?”

“I thought I’d never…” love again.

“Thank you for telling me.” Y/N rests her hand over his. It all makes a little more sense now.

Once he starts talking, the dam breaks, with every dirty detail pouring through the cracks.

Her name was Lenore Dove.

She was eternally proud of her Covey roots.

She loved the woods.

She believed there was freedom outside the districts.

“She used to raise geese.”

“Makes sense.” Y/N lifts a shoulder.

“In what way?” Haymitch laughs.

“You’re like a goose,” she tells him. Taciturn, loyal to a fault.

“You might be onto something.” If I tell her that I love her, Snow will surely kill her, somehow, someway. Maybe he’ll make me do it myself. But if I never get the chance to tell her, it will surely kill me…and as she once confessed in the arena, Y/N is afraid of being alone. “We gotta get ready.” The tributes are waiting.

It must feel better, getting it off his chest. One day maybe she could talk about…things. The things that upset her mother enough her father forbade Y/N of speaking on them.

“Do you think that…. maybe with a good sponsor we could save one of them? If so, which one?” The boy or the girl?

“The girl.” He decides, “a good sponsor isn’t gonna save her from the careers but if she plays her cards right…maybe.” She’s not going to leave her kid brother behind.

“Ok.” Y/N nods.

————————————————————————

“When the gong sounds, don’t forget to run, grab a pack of supplies if you can. Search for water and high ground.” Y/N reminds Maximus, on the elevator to the hovercraft.

During Haymitch’s…sabbatical from mentoring, Y/N had to decide which tribute to join in the elevator. Usually the child who seemed most afraid. To bring some sort of comfort to them in their final moments. Last year she took the girl and Haymitch the boy, now they’ve switched.

Maximus is shaking and trying hard to hide it. “When will I see my sister?”

“Denali is waiting for you on the hovercraft, you’ll be together there.” Y/N assures him.

The boy nods, “thank you for trying to get us sponsors. It was real nice of you.”

“Honey, you have sponsors.” Y/N says, “all you need to worry about is-”

“Water, high ground, grab a pack if we can.”

“Yeah,” Y/N smiles, gnawing at the inside of her cheek.

“Do we hug or something?” He asks as the elevator doors open.

“We can.”

“Just don’t tell my sister.” Maximus insists, wrapping his arms around his mentor.

“Ok,” Y/N rests her cheek against the top of his head. Feeling the bones of his shoulder blades beneath her hand. Even though he hasn’t got much of a shot, she will not turn her back on this little boy.

“Time to go,” a peacekeeper reaches in through the open doors, dragging the boy away.

“I’ll be watching the whole time,” you won’t be alone. “Don’t be afraid.”

————————————————————————

The viewing room is full, with Capitol higher ups crowding around Y/N. Naturally the cameras follow.

“Look at you! So beautiful.”

“Your dress is a masterpiece.”

“Y/N! Did you see?” A particularly eccentric woman, wearing some sort of orange fur, motions to her nose. “Just like yours.”

Over the woman’s shoulder, Haymitch is laughing it up with a man she’s not familiar with.

“Wow,” Y/N smiles. “That is very nice.”

“I know the best surgeon. Everyone who is anyone-”

Y/N catches a glimpse of Cecelia, a fellow victor, from district eight. The first year Y/N came to mentor alone, most of the victors had already settled into cliques.

They were all polite enough, but no one was overly eager to explain the sponsorship system or how to send parachutes once she raised the money.

“You have to take the money up to the table and select from the menu.” Cecelia whispers.

“Oh, uh…thank you.” Y/N nods.

“Are you here by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Cecelia purses her lips, “you can sit with me if you want.”

Y/N sits with her for the next two years. Until last year, when she convinced Haymitch to join her, effectively sparking Snow’s curiosity.

The Capitol woman is still talking.

“Would you mind showing my husband?” Y/N asks. “He’s going to love this.”

“Of course!”

“Haymitch,” Y/N hails him over.

“You better go.” The Capitol man claps him on the back. “We mustn’t leave your lovely bride waiting.”

Haymitch’s blood runs cold. Did you watch? No. He stops himself. Knowing won’t help anyone. Instead he nods, stepping a few feet away to wrap a protective arm around his wife.

“This is my new friend, Synchrony.” Y/N tells him.

Some part of the woman is familiar to him, though he can’t put a finger on it. “Haymitch. Nice to meet you.” He extends a hand, which the woman swiftly takes.

“Likewise.”

“She was just showing me her nose.”

Her nose…your nose?

“Almost an exact replica.” Synchrony gushes.

“What do you think?” Y/N turns her head, so he can see from all angles.

“Well,” Haymitch chuckles. “It’s a great nose.”

“I thought so too.” The woman says, before flitting away at the sound of the anthem. “The games are about to begin.”

Y/N surveys the room, District one is cocky, as usual. Gloss, last year’s victor, has a sister who volunteered. And he couldn’t be more proud.

“District one, number one!” He exclaims at the sight of his younger sister lined up on her pedestal.

Her long blonde hair is held away from her face in two intricate braids. Cashmere.

Denali and Maximus have been placed at a notable distance, with careers on either side of the boy.

Haymitch sighs. She’s not gonna be able to get to him.

The surrounding forest seems to chitter with a life all its own. Cameras pan over the trees, revealing the horrors within. Spider mutts with fangs dripping venom and glowing red eyes. Weaving glistening webs, large enough to catch their human prey.

“Spider forest.”

“Not my favorite.” Y/N shifts closer to Haymitch.

The games begin with the sound of cannon and the tributes are off. Denali makes a mad dash for the cornucopia, grabbing two packs and a weapon. She does manage to reach her brother. They are nearly to the trees when Maximus takes a spear through his spine.

It’s the boy from two.

“Wooohooo, let’s go two.” His mentors rejoice.

First blood is always celebrated…by those who partake in celebrating death.

In a blind rage, Denali charges the careers, wielding her blade as though she’s trained for years to do it. She manages to take out the male from one, now abandoned by his partner.

Perhaps Cashmere did not consider the careers could become the target of a grieving girl from twelve.

Denali runs her weapon through the girl from two, after taking a good beating herself. Saving the boy for last.

“I was just playing the game.” He stammers, realizing that he will now have to take on the crazed girl, hand to hand. No more spear. No weapon at all.

“Game over.” Denali murmurs, all the light has left her eyes. She does not fear death. She has nothing to live for, apart from killing her brother’s murderer. She feels no pain.

Her cannon sounds not long after the boy from two’s, as though she hung on just long enough to hear it.

“I’ve gotta hand it to you, twelve.” Gloss calls, raising his glass to Y/N and Haymitch, “that was one hell of a show.”

I hope you choke.

————————————————————————

The viewing room begins to clear out around sunset. With both their tributes gone, the Abernathys are expected to attend the nightly festivities. Plutarch Heavensbee is hosting tonight.

Y/N excuses herself to the restroom before they’re escorted to a second location. In the fleeting moments, standing before her reflection at the sink mirror, Y/N has a moment to process what has happened.

Grabbing for the pristine white hand towel and dabbing it directly along her waterline. A trick Vanity taught her.

‘I do not care if you cry. Just don’t ruin your makeup.’

She used to cry more, in those first years after the games. Like a faucet that never stopped running.

“Are you ok?” A voice to her left whispers, announcing their presence.

“Cecelia,” Y/N whispers back.

“This is the only place the cameras don’t follow you these days, huh?” Her friend remarks. “That’s what happens when you buy into their agenda.”

“You think I bought into the Capitol?”

“You married your least favorite person in the world.” The woman lifts a shoulder. “If that’s not selling out, I don’t know what is.”

“I didn’t sell out, they were gonna sell me.” Y/N fights the urge to scream at the top of your lungs.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea.” Cecelia blanches.

“You could’ve asked,” Y/N snaps.

They stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“They didn’t though, did they?” Sell you?

“They…recorded us. And sold it.” Y/N lowers her voice even further.

“Jesus Christ.” Cecelia’s stomach turns. “B-because you’re married? Do they do that to all victors?”

“Cecelia, I don’t know.” Y/N shakes her head.

Terror etches itself into the features of her face.

“I think it’ll be ok.” Y/N decides, “Teddy isn’t a victor. If they wanted to sell you, they would’ve done it by now.”

Cecelia nods.

“Just don’t draw any unnecessary attention.”

“Y/N,” Cecelia breathes. “You draw the attention.”

“Oh.” Oh, that hurts. It burns.

“They don’t care what I do, they never have. I’m not terribly interesting, or knowledgeable or pretty, I’m just Cecelia. The cameras and the people only hung around-”

“Because of me,” Y/N finally understands.

“It’s probably best if we…” keep our distance.

“Yeah,” Y/N twists the obnoxious diamond of her engagement ring around her finger.

————————————————————————

The Heavensbee estate is sizable, while lacking the grandiosity of President Snow’s mansion.

“Welcome, welcome.” Plutarch himself greets them. “Can I get you anything? Wine? Champagne?”

“How about some real liquor? Don’t hold out on me, Plutarch.” Haymitch says, keeping hold of Y/N’s hand, as they step over the threshold.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Plutarch grins. “Follow me.”

Party goers smile and wave as they pass, making their way to Plutarch’s personal stash. He hands Haymitch a bottle of deep caramel liquor.

Haymitch uncorks it, lifting the bottle to his nose and inhaling with an appreciative hum.

“Two glasses?” Plutarch looks to Y/N now.

“No thanks,” Y/N shakes her head, “just for Haymitch.”

Plutarch doesn’t argue. Reaching quickly for a crystal tumbler, before Haymitch can begin chugging directly from the bottle.

“Thank you,” Haymitch fills his cup to the brim.

“Of course.” Plutarch replies, “I was hoping you’d show.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t had a chance to properly introduce myself to your wife.”

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N extends her hand for a shake. “I’m Y/N.”

“Plutarch,” he grips her hand, firmly, before releasing. “I know you’re the talk of the town, so I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Would you join me for a game of chess?”

“Sure,” Y/N catches Haymitch’s gaze as Plutarch begins leading her away.

If she were in any real danger he would follow, but he doesn’t. Leaving only Y/N, Plutarch and his chessboard, in a room unsuitable for a party.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess, I don’t have many visitors here.”

“The all exclusive chess room,” Y/N deadpans, “everybody has one.”

The man chuckles. “I assume you know the rules.”

“My dad and I used to play.”

“Wonderful! You’re a shoe in. Please, sit.” Plutarch motions to the chair.

Despite the layer of dust and cobwebs covering a majority of the room, the purple velveteen chairs are perfectly preserved.

Y/N takes a seat, his pieces are red to her white. “This is a beautiful set.” Handcrafted, down to the pawns.

“It was a gift.” Plutarch says, making his first move.

Y/N considers trying to get more out of him, but it’s late and she doesn’t care all that much. Instead she moves her own piece into place. Her favorite play is the Queen’s Gambit, but he’ll surely be expecting that. She’ll have to take a quieter approach.

He’s paying more attention to the way she moves than the number of pieces she captures.

What’s your game, Plutarch?

“See that?” Plutarch grins, “you won.”

“I don’t give a shit about winning the game, I want to break the board.” Y/N smiles, in return.

“Life is a series of choices, much like chess. If you break the board, there will be a new board. You’ll get where you’re going a lot faster if you learn to play the game.” The man says, “moves and countermoves.”

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @ancientbeing10 @1-800-styles @l3xi3luv @lam-ila @druby2011-blog @liballer @readinginthe-am @rae-11 @champomiel @mariechristine00 @solacestyles @inky-sun @dadbodfanatic-x @sandorcleganeslutt @indigoashh @mustainelove @darkened-writer @ch3rrybutterfly @boredomquest @theladyofmanyfandomsofficial @kisskittenn @kwllakka @feeblemindedfool @oopsieikilledan @that-one-fangirl69 @just-levyy @thisisthepartwhereishutup @alixxhere @quackitys-amor @pepelachanel @lurkingsparrow @faithalsip09 @cwallace02sblog

[dragqueenstarscream]

i need to see more starop where starscream is having trouble breaking the cycle, so he falls back into his old habits.

one of the most difficult parts about breaking the cycle of abuse is trying your hardest to not repeat the behaviors your abuser imprinted on to you. speaking from experience, it can be very hard when you enter a healthy relationship and find yourself thinking like your abuser.

so imagine, starscream finally joins the autobots. by some unfortunate circumstance, they lose an important battle. optimus encourages his team, but privately, he retreats to somewhere isolated to think. starscream finds him and asks what he's doing.

when optimus admits that he's disappointed in himself for not doing the best he could on the battlefield, starscream finds himself scoffing. "well, maybe we wouldn't be in the position if you'd done a better job to begin with," he grumbles, his voice slowly escalating. "i thought you were supposed to be some great leader. or is your reputation all a myth? because of you, now the decepticons have the advantage, and we're one step closer to losing this war!" outraged that optimus hasn't said anything, he shouts, "are you even listening to me, prime?!"

when optimus turns his helm to look up, starscream is spooked by what he sees. he doesn't see the face of someone about to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. instead, the look in his normally lively blue optics can best be described as haunted, almost dead, but clinging onto the last shreds of life.

the realization hits starscream like enemy fire. his voice box shorts out as he trips over his own words, trying to take them back. one thought comes to mind, and he knows optimus is thinking it, too.

i sound like megatron.

[slayerdurge]

Well, but that wasn't Helly that said that, that was Helena when she was pretending to be Helly. Helly encouraged innie!Mark to save Gemma and hope that outie!Mark will follow through with his promise to reintegrate so that innie!Mark can at least have a shot at happiness even if it's not his own idea of what happiness looks like. (This is actually part of why some people think it might be Helena who is calling Mark back from the precipice. That and the look she shoots Gemma, which could be interpreted as gloating, though I think it's too ambiguous to say for sure.)

I think outie!Mark was most likely lying to innie!Mark about his enthusiasm regarding finishing reintegrating, but I'm not sure if he was lying about the intent. I think that if innie!Mark actually did exactly what he wanted and gave him his life with Gemma back, outie!Mark might still go through with it out of a feeling of obligation. I don't think it is something he actually wants, but I think he might chose to do it just because he might feel like he owes innie!Mark. But it is definitely not guaranteed either. I also think that is pretty much the only part of the back-and-forth camera conversation where outie!Mark was definitely lying. To me, it sounded very different from everything else outie!Mark said. He sounded like he was shooting a commercial. And his smile dropped INSTANTLY when the camera turned off. But I think earlier was mostly honest, including when he apologized to innie!Mark. I think outie!Mark doesn't entirely lack empathy for innie!Mark, but he doesn't prioritize him over himself either. Which is why neither does innie!Mark prioritize outie!Mark over himself in the end.

But I also think outie!Mark has a responsibility towards innie!Mark in a way that innie!Mark does not have towards outie!Mark because outie!Mark made the choice to sever in the first place. But, at the same time, it is heavily implied that Lumon watched him and Gemma for years and manipulated him into a position where he was desperate enough to make that choice, so it's hard not to be understanding. Especially when they've successfully done the same to so many other people. It is even implied that they might have deliberately caused Gemma's miscarriage. (Her fertility doctors are Lumon plants.) Is he still ultimately responsible for his own decision? Yes, of course, and it was 100% an immoral decision. But I don't think he's incapable of understanding that and ultimately regretting it. It's just that it's up to him to do so. Also, there is the question of what exactly outie!Mark "owes" innie!Mark. What would constitute reparation for the sin he committed by creating him? It's kinda hard to say. Even reintegration is far from a flawless fix, and it's probably the best bet they have. But what about in Gemma's case? 25 innies? And they truly existed to suffer nonstop. Innie!Mark didn't exist to suffer nonstop. He even says it himself. He had a deeply limited life, but it was not hell. Gemma's innies though? Nothing but suffering, every moment of their existence. Could you argue that reintegration is as good a solution for her as it is for Mark? Certainly not as easily.

I also definitely think if there's a core moral to the show, it's that it's immoral to force someone else to carry your pain for you. At the same time, I think there is also empathy to be had for the people who have suffered so much that they are driven to do this (especially when they've been convinced that that's not at all what they're doing! outie!Mark outright stated that he believed he was creating innie!Mark to be free of pain! it is basically the opposite intent!), but ultimately everyone is still responsible for not continuing the chain of suffering. And I think this all mirrors beautifully Lumon's goal of using the Severance chip to "cure" pain and the story of its conception at the hands of a traumatized and constantly abused child who wanted relief.

This, to me, is what makes it such a spectacular show. It tackles complex moral questions that don't have easy answers, and it does so with consistent thoughtfulness.

"I hate mark s for what he did," "mark scout is evil" cups your face between my hands. do you understand that sometimes in life two people who are basically good and have no intention to do harm - indeed, two people who might be very, very, VERY much alike - can want things that are incompatible with their mutual success. do you understand that when that real, human, inevitable circumstance occurs, deciding to pursue your own happiness in favor of the happiness of someone you don't know is a tacit statement that, at least to you, you are more important than they are. And that is simply a fact about any time you decide to put your own well-being ahead of the desires of others, and that it isn't fundamentally wrong to do so, it's just a symptom of living in the world together. do you understand that living in the world with other people sometimes means there will be struggle and sorrow even if there are no bad actors, and that the failure on display here is not that one man wants a life with his wife and can't have it, and another man wants a life with his lover and can't have it, but that both men are failing to extend compassion and understanding to each other: the compassion and understanding that is the only thing that will save us in a world where pain is inevitable, despite Lumon's best efforts?

like. do you understand that this is what the show is about

[takuma-talkz]

hi i really hope ur not annoyed by my requests and ur not overworking🩷

may we get anti tulpar daisuke eating out reader kinda roughly (or js roughly) to take a break from his job cuz damn he’s stressed!!! also possibly overstimulation if u want🩷

one question though, why doesn’t anti tulpar dai like to overstimulate reader?

okay bye!!!

-that one anti tulpar daisuke loving anon

a/n: I just personally feel like he wouldn’t bc he would feel like he’s abusing your body for his pleasure😔 And NO I AM NEVER ANNOYED BY UUUUU!!!

Daisuke and Overstimulation don’t mix!

NSFW Anti Tulpar! Daisuke!

banners by @cafekitsune

Daisuke hates overstimulating you. 

To him, overstimulating you means abusing you and your body for his own pleasure.

How did he discover that he hates overstimulation? This is how.

Daisuke was stressed one day. Curly was all over his ass about documents, Jimmy decided to clean up his office and ruin said documents. His hands pulled at his faded, dyed hair.

He felt your soft hands rub his shoulders. Tension knots disappear as your love works through his body. 

“Dai? Maybe you should take a break for the rest of the day.” You turn him around and take his hands into yours. 

“A break sounds amazing right now.” He lets you guide him to your shared room. Daisuke hugs you tightly as you both step foot into the room. He borrows his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in that new perfume he got for you.

Strawberries and peaches.

He groans, lowering his lips to suck on your neck. You gasp, hands trembling to grab at his shoulders.

“Baby, let me have you tonight, please.” His voice breaks with a slight whimper. 

How can you deny him? You find yourself lying on your back, legs on either side of his shoulders.

Your panties hang off your left ankle, and you moan loudly as his tongue flicks rapidly against your clit. His thumb pulls back the hood to properly target your weak spot. 

Daisuke’s unoccupied hand circles your entrance. Without a warning, three fingers enter you. You cried out, he’s being rough.

Sex with Daisuke usually has its rough elements, but this is too much. Your impending orgasm is a sign.

When you cum, you failed to notify him that you were cumming. But he doesn’t seem to notice it, he keeps sucking and nipping at your pussy. 

“Daisuke! ‘S too much—!” Your legs tap his back to give you a break. His hands fly to your knees, keeping your legs grounded.

He needs this. God, he feels so good when eating you out.

His cock twitch just from your taste. Your second orgasm crashing down on you hard. Your hands slam down on the sheets.

It hurts now.

“Dai—! Please!” You beg him to give you a break, but he’s so locked in on your gushy, wet pussy. 

“Fuckfuckfuck—!” You curse as he harshly tongues your entrance. His left hand flicked your pearl.

Your third and most painful orgasm sent shockwaves to every nerve in your body. Hands flew to push away his head.

That seemed to finally get his attention. Daisuke’s chestnut-colored eyes rake over your trembling body, the way your legs closed so tightly together, the way you curled into yourself.

He went overboard and you paid the price. He runs his fingers through your sweat-drenched hair.

“I’m sorry, my love.” Daisuke’s heart snapped at every pained whimper you released.

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I didn’t mean to overwork you, dear.”

From that point on, Daisuke and overstimulation do not mix well!

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter 5 - Behind Enemy Lines

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns that she and R aren't friends

W/c: 4.5k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Note: This chapter is the last one I had fully written before. So, be prepared for slower updates on this.

It’s late, later than usual, for Melina to be working. The sun had long since set, and most of the scientists in the lab had retreated to their sleeping quarters. The corridors outside were quiet, save for the faint echo of footsteps from patrolling guards.

While Melina remained, she was too dedicated to her work to stop now. She absentmindedly adjusted the cuff of her lab coat as she leaned over the microscope, jotting down quick notes. The faint blue glow of the computer monitor cast sharp shadows across her face, deepening the lines of focus that seemed to be permanently etched into her brow.

Another failed batch. The data blinking back at her confirmed what she already suspected. Still too unstable. Still too many variables. Dreykov would not be pleased.

She sighed quietly, rolling her neck to relieve the settled stiffness. The test pig stirred restlessly in the cage across the room, sensing her presence.

“You’re still awake too,” she murmured under her breath, her voice softer then, almost warm, as if speaking to the animal anchored her somehow. Melina returned to her notes, methodically crossing out dosages and recalculating figures. She was already thinking of adjustments—how to make the serum more precise and eliminate the cognitive dissonance in the subjects' brains. How to make obedience effortless.

The sound of footsteps outside the lab door snapped her out of her thoughts.

One of the junior researchers peered in, hesitant. "Comrade Vostokoff? It’s almost midnight."

Melina didn't look up. "Go. Get some sleep."

"But—"

She cut him off with a glance sharp enough to send him retreating without another word. She didn’t have the patience tonight.

She returned her eyes to the computer screen, squinting at the figures and notes from previous dates, when she heard the door swing open again.

"I thought I said good night," Melina spoke, irritation bleeding through her words. She looked up to see Nora standing there with a notebook in hand.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Nora stepped further inside, her voice measured, almost careful.

Melina blinked at her, her irritation slightly softening, though she didn’t say so. Nora rarely appeared in the lab at this hour—always observant, always keeping her distance unless she had a reason.

"You should be asleep," Melina said simply, leaning back from the monitor. "It's late."

Nora offered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe you'd let me sit in. Watch."

Melina studied her momentarily, weighing whether to send her away like the others. But Nora stood steady under the scrutiny, notebook clutched tightly at her side, eyes flickering only once toward the monitor.

"You’re not here just to watch," Melina said, quiet but knowing.

Nora shrugged, but there was tension behind it. "I wanted to see the new data for myself. The last batch failed."

Melina’s lips twitched at that—not quite amusement, but close. "You’ve been paying attention. This isn't your field of work, Doctor."

Nora didn't answer. Her gaze darted between Melina and the monitor. She swallowed, her fingers tightening around the notebook.

Melina narrowed her eyes, taking in the subtle changes in Nora's expression. She was nervous. Uncomfortable. And Melina could tell it wasn't just from being in the lab after hours.

"Is there something else?"

"You've been away," Nora admitted. "I just wanted to check in on you."

Melina tilted her head at that. For the past month, Dreykov had sent her away on business. The details were confidential, as usual, but Melina had spent much of the month in the field with Widows, working on various projects. She knew Nora would have noticed. She noticed everything.

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" Nora pressed, and her voice was softer than usual.

Melina stared at her. She didn't respond.

"I've met one of your girls," Nora said, and Melina perked up. "She's sweet."

"Yelena?" She asked.

"Natasha," Nora shook her head. "Seems that Dreykov is taking her under his wing."

Melina’s expression didn’t shift much, but Nora caught the subtle way her fingers paused over the keyboard—a faint look in her eyes.

“Natasha,” Melina echoed as if testing how the name felt. She hadn't seen it much since she returned from Ohio. She tried to erase her memories of the girls out of her head. They were better off without her.

Nora nodded, observing her. “She’s sharp. Observant. Quiet, but not out of fear.”

Melina said nothing, returning her gaze to the monitor. The data in front of her suddenly seemed less important.

“You said Dreykov’s taking interest?” Melina asked, voice-controlled.

Nora flipped her notebook closed, resting it on the table. “Yes. I heard them speaking. He likes girls who don’t flinch.”

That earned a slight twitch at the corner of Melina’s mouth—whether it was pride, worry, or something else, Nora couldn’t quite tell.

“She’s too young for that,” Melina murmured, more to herself.

“We were younger,” Nora reminded gently. "How was the field?" She asked, changing the subject.

Melina shrugged. "Successful. He's satisfied."

"That's good," Nora nodded, but she couldn't help how her eyes searched Melina's as if looking for something more.

"How's your girl?" Melina asked, seeing the same look in Nora's eyes that she'd been sporting a few moments before. Nora’s fingers brushed absently over the cover of her notebook, but her focus stayed on Melina.

“She’s still so young,” Nora said, almost an afterthought. “They all are.”

Melina’s jaw tightened slightly, her eyes returning to the screen before she leaned back in her chair. “Dreykov prefers them young. Easier to mold."

Nora gave a quiet laugh, humorless. “And harder to break. Or so he thinks.”

“You shouldn’t care about her,” Melina reminded her. 

They both knew better. Neither had the right to feel ownership over you or Natasha being in the program. The Red Room didn’t permit attachments—it trained them out of you and punished any signs of weakness. Nora’s eyes didn’t waver. “Neither should you.”

Melina’s mouth curved into something faintly resembling a smile but didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I don’t,” she lied smoothly.

Nora nodded, accepting the lie as it was given. “Neither do I.”

Alone. And in this quiet, they could admit what they couldn’t anywhere else: that maybe they did care in whatever fractured, guarded way they knew how.

“She keeps her guard up,” Nora murmured again, softer this time. “Not because of me, but because she knows better.”

Melina's gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over her features. “They all learn eventually.”

Nora swallowed, letting that settle. She glanced at the clock on the wall—far past midnight now.

“I should go,” she said, standing and tucking the notebook under her arm.

Melina didn’t argue.

******

It’s the third time you’d watched that particular movie.

It was practically ingrained into your brain—the overly bright colors, the overemotional voices, the storyline you could recite in your sleep. Another movie you hated. Another lesson you were expected to absorb.

A damsel in distress. A girl too soft, too trusting, too naive. And, of course, a man would come and save her. Always a man.

Your lips moved silently, matching the characters' dialogue before the sound reached your ears. The instructors watched from the side, arms folded, waiting for the moment you slipped up—waiting for the accent to falter, the rhythm to break.

You didn't. None of you did. Not then.

They made sure of that.

Each of you mimicked the sing-song American cadence perfectly, the way your tongue curled right on certain words, the exact pitch of surprise or fear when the girl on screen gasps over and over until it is second nature. Until it was indistinguishable from real.

You glanced sideways at the others, expression carefully blank. No conversation was allowed during these sessions. Just repetition. Watching. Parroting. Learning how to sound like something you were not.

Someone you were not. Your back ached from the folding chair you'd been given, prompting you to stretch a little higher in your seat. You disliked Snow White.

Too much happiness. Too much hope. The girl was too trusting, and everyone knew how that turned out.

You were never allowed to talk about what you were watching or learning. What they wanted you to become. But you did anyway. This was the portion ofthe  class you almost enjoyed. The part where each of you would take turns practicing with a partner—mimicking the lines, the tone, the accent until it was second nature. No one could tell the difference between you and some average American girl.

“Romanoff,” the instructor barked, eyes scanning the room before landing on you. “With Y/L/N.”

You caught Natasha’s gaze across the room as she stood, her face unreadable. You knew better, though. Knew the sharpness in her eyes wasn’t just from the drill.

It felt purposeful. They deliberately paired you two, watching and waiting for something to happen. Rumors flew fast in the Red Room. Word around the compound was Natasha was taking your place and had been since you'd started privately training her.

You stood slower than you should have, weighing it.

And then you spoke before you could stop yourself.

“I’d like to switch.”

The room went still.

A few heads snapped toward you—eyes widening just slightly before they quickly refocused on the floor. No one asked to switch.

The instructor arched a brow, stepping toward you until his boots stopped right before you. "Who do you want instead?” he asked finally, voice clipped.

It was a test. Everything here was a test.

You flicked your eyes past Natasha, settling on a girl two rows over—one who wouldn’t challenge you. One who wouldn’t look at you like Natasha did like she knew the parts of you you’d rather keep buried.

“That one,” you answered simply.

A pause. Too long.

But then the instructor nodded once. “Fine.”

He snapped his fingers at the girl and motioned for her to move. She did, her eyes wide, darting between you and the instructor.

He gave the command, and you started over, the girl beside you stammering as you mimicked the lines perfectly.

You could feel Natasha's eyes burning into the side of your head, but you didn’t turn.

*****

The hallways were always eerily quiet during transitions. No one said a word as they shuffled to whichever classroom they belonged to. The silence was suffocating and suffering, depending on how you viewed it. In a sea of girls, Natasha couldn't shake the irritation in her chest. You had ignored her entirely this whole day. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much.

She tried to tell herself it was just another part of the game they played here—getting inside each other’s heads, testing limits. But it still didn't sit right with her, that moment when you chose another girl. Not because it made her feel insignificant—she wasn’t the type for that—but because you decided to distance yourself. She could see you just a few feet ahead, an invisible space around you, as the other girls tried to keep their distance. Even when you didn't try, they acted like you were the odd one.

"Why’d you do it?" Natasha asked finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to break the stillness between you two.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you kept walking, gaze fixed ahead as if you hadn’t heard her.

“Why?” she repeated, slowing her pace to match yours.

You glanced at her briefly, eyes flicking up to meet hers, but only for a second before they quickly dropped back to the floor. “Just didn’t feel like working with you,” you muttered, the words half-distracted as if you didn’t mean them.

It stung, though. And Natasha wasn’t sure if you were even aware of it.

“Did I do something?” she pressed, her voice softer now, but there was still an edge to it.

You stopped walking, turning to face her. You were quiet for a moment, staring down at her, before you stepped forward, closing the space between you.

"Why are you still talking to me, Romanoff?" You asked quietly, the words a little too cold, a little too distant. "You're the one who doesn't need my help anymore."

Natasha stared at you. She didn’t know how to respond. "I don't understand what you mean."

"You are so naive," You shook your head.

"Is this how you treat your friends?" Natasha tilted her head. "Is this what friends do?"

“Friends?” The word tasted foreign in your mouth. “What do you know about friends? We don’t get friends here. We get missions.” You bit the word off like it was a curse. “You’re just... another assignment. Another thing Dreykov wants us to do.”

Your voice was colder than you intended. It came out more venomous than you'd meant, but the anger had already crept in. Natasha’s eyes flickered with something—disappointment? Confusion?

But that was the thing you couldn’t allow. You couldn’t afford to care. Not about her. Not about anyone.

“I’m not some charity case, Romanoff,” you continued, stepping even closer to her and narrowing your eyes. “I don’t need you to ‘save’ me. And I don’t need you looking at me like you understand a damn thing about me.”

"I understand that you're afraid," Natasha began.

"Oh, no, we are not doing this here," You shook your head.

"Then come with me, and we can talk elsewhere," Natasha challenged.

You glared at her, not moving.

Natasha rolled her eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Fine."

She grabbed your wrist and started tugging you along with her.

"Let go!" You hissed.

"No, because if I do, you'll run away."

Natasha's grip tightened as she dragged you further down the corridor, the other girls parting to let you both through. You glared at them, and they quickly averted their gazes.

You should've pulled your hand free. You should've resisted. But somehow, you let her lead you anyway.

"This isn't necessary," you muttered, trying to pull your hand away, but she gripped tighter.

"It is, though," Natasha insisted.

"How?" You scoffed.

"Because if I didn't force you to listen, you wouldn't. Because if I didn't drag you away from here, people would have surrounded us."

Natasha pulled you into an empty room, glancing around quickly before shutting the door.

"We're alone now. Talk."

You swallowed hard, avoiding her eyes. "Talk about what?"

"About the fact that you're acting weird and ignoring me."

"You really are naive," You shook your head.

"Stop calling me that," Natasha growled.

"What's it like being so good at everything?"

Natasha's face twisted, confused. "What?"

"Being Dreykov's new eye candy," you continued. "Getting the attention you want. Making him smile."

Natasha blinked, trying to make sense of it. "Is that why you're acting like this?"

"Acting like what? You're not my friend, Romanoff. You're competition."

"So this is what you're like," Natasha scoffed. "You're jealous."

"No, I'm not." You denied. "I tried to warn you how he is. I've given you every single tip I could, and you keep running into him. What makes you so special?"

"He's taken an interest in me," Natasha explained. "I can't fight that."

"He doesn't care about you, Romanoff," You spat. "He doesn't care about anyone but himself."

"What are you scared of?"

"You're the one who should be scared," You sighed, settling onto a desk. "He's planning to send you on a mission soon."

Natasha froze. Her mind immediately went to everything you'd warned her about before.

"What do you mean?"

"It's why he's having me spend so much time with you. Why he wants you so close," You explained.

"How do you know this?" Natasha asked. "Why wouldn't he tell me?"

"He wants it to be unexpected, I guess," You shrugged. "It's not uncommon."

Natasha looked up, meeting your eyes. "Have you done this before?"

"His missions," You nodded. "Of course I have."

Natasha swallowed, the words heavy in her stomach. "Is that what the other girls call me? His newest girl?"

"They call you a lot of things," You murmured, averting your gaze.

"Like what?" Natasha asked.

"Like you're lucky, or maybe stupid," You paused, chewing on your bottom lip. "They think that's why you're suddenly getting special treatment. They don't know like I know."

Natasha studied your face for a moment. "And what is it that you know?"

"I know how he gets," You folded your arms across your chest.

"You're always so vague," Natasha sighed. "Why can't you just tell me what this mission is about?"

"It's painful sometimes to talk about," You admitted quietly. "I don't have anyone to talk about it with. I'm not supposed to trust you."

Natasha’s brow furrowed at your last words, the soft confession slipping out before you could bite it back. "You're not supposed to trust me," she repeated slowly. "But you do?"

You stared at her, jaw tight, arms still crossed like armor. You weren’t sure if it was trust, but it wasn’t distrust. You weren’t supposed to let anyone close. But somehow, she kept inching past the walls anyway.

"I don't know," you muttered finally. "Maybe I’m just tired."

Natasha tilted her head, voice quieter now. "Tired of what?"

Of course, you didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted.

"You don’t want to know what his missions are like," you said, voice low and flat. "It’s not something you come back from the same."

Natasha swallowed hard, her hands shaking slightly at her sides. She knew what you were implying. She knew how bad it could get, but hearing you say it...

"You don't think I can handle it?"

"You think too highly of yourself," You shook your head.

Natasha flinched, hurt. She hadn't realized until then how badly she wanted you to believe in her.

"At the sparring session tomorrow, throw it," You spoke after a beat of silence.

Natasha narrowed her eyes, confused. "Throw what?"

"The match. He's watching," You shrugged. "You need to make him angry."

Natasha stared at you, uncomprehending. "I don't—"

"Make him mad, and he won't send you," You said, cutting her off. "Trust me."

"How will I know?" Natasha asked.

"You won't."

Her brows knitted together, frustration mounting. She wanted to shake you. To demand more than half-formed answers and vague warnings.

"You're not making any sense."

"That's the point," You sighed.

Natasha stared at you, her jaw clenching. "You're asking me to lose on purpose," she said like she needed to hear it aloud to believe it.

You didn’t flinch. Just gave a slight nod, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"But why?" she pressed. "Why does it matter if I win or lose?"

You hesitated. "Because if you win, you’ll prove something to him. That you’re ready."

"And if I lose?" she asked, voice sharp.

You shrugged again, but your posture was stiff now—too casual to be real. "Then maybe you’ll get to stay a little longer. Maybe he’ll decide you’re not worth the effort."

Natasha's eyes narrowed, mind racing. She couldn’t piece together why you cared so much—why you’d rather she humiliate herself in front of the others, risk punishment, to avoid catching Dreykov’s attention.

Her throat felt tight. "What about you?"

You blinked, caught off guard.

"If I throw it," she said carefully, "what happens to you?"

For a second, your expression cracked—just slightly. Something flickered there, something too fast to name.

"I can handle it," you murmured, voice almost flat.

Natasha shook her head, stepping closer. "Why are you doing this?"

You didn’t answer, eyes hard as stone now. Guard back up.

Natasha exhaled shakily. "You’re not telling me something."

"You don’t need to know everything," you said softly, but something bitter was under the words. "Just do what I told you." With that, you left her with her thoughts, knowing you were late for your next class.

*********

The mat smelled faintly of sweat and old rubber. The other girl, Irina, circled Natasha like she was sizing her for something bigger. Natasha was quick on her feet, sharper than usual. Every movement practiced was efficient. She was winning, and they both knew it.

But then—

"At the sparring session tomorrow, throw it."

Your voice crept in, steady, certain. It lodged somewhere in the back of her head.

Natasha feinted left and landed a sharp hit on Irina’s ribs. Irina stumbled but recovered fast. Natasha could end this. She should end this.

She didn't.

Instead, Natasha pulled back. Letting her strikes land softer. Slower. Testing.

Her eyes flicked up once—to the far end of the room. A shadow near the door. Watching. Not moving. Just there.

Her pulse kicked.

She pivoted wrong on purpose, leaving her side exposed. Irina didn't hesitate and landed a blow to Natasha’s shoulder, sending her down harder than necessary. Natasha grimaced, letting its weight pin her.

Someone nearby laughed under their breath.

The instructor clapped once. "Again."

She rose, brushing dirt from her palms.

"Make him mad, and he won’t send you."

Irina rushed her, and Natasha braced for the impact. All she saw next was black as the blow she received was hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

"Good," the instructor called. "But she can take more than that."

A sharp kick to the ribs. Pain radiated.

"Better," the instructor commented, tone bored.

Irina smirked, circling her again.

Natasha moved too slowly. She took another blow to the chest, and at that time, her knees buckled. Irina didn't stop.

"I give," Natasha rasped, but the other girl wasn't listening.

Her fists rained down. Once. Twice. Over and over.

"Irina," the instructor called.

But the blows kept coming.

"I give!" Natasha yelled, louder this time.

The instructor intervened.

Natasha curled in on herself, shielding her face, waiting for the next hit. It didn't come. There was a silence across the training room. Natasha didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"Up, Romanoff," the instructor said.

Natasha looked up, and her vision was blurry. The pain was a dull throb in her ribs. Her lungs. Her stomach.

She wondered if that was it. If she’s done enough.

She didn't look for you but knew you were in the crowd. Watching, too.

*******

The girls filed out of the room one by one. The quiet chatter left with them as they discussed the match they just watched. Natasha walked on unsteady feet, hiding the pain behind short breaths as she headed for the door.

She doesn't make it out of the room.

"Romanoff."

She froze. Dreykov didn't look up from the clipboard in his hands.

His voice was clipped. Barely interested.

"Is this what you consider effort?"

Silence stretched. Natasha kept her posture straight, breathing steadily.

"Sir, I-" She attempted to defend herself.

"You had one task. And you couldn't manage that."

Still not looking at her. Like she was barely worth his time.

"You’re not here to coast on yesterday’s results." A pause. "If that’s what you plan to do, I’ll find someone else." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I brought you for training with y/n because I thought you were ready.

Natasha swallowed, a sick feeling churning in her stomach.

"I had a special mission for you planned," He said. "Something that would move you up the ranks. I will send someone else."

"Yes sir," She answered, her voice small.

******

The steam clung to the air, dense and heavy, curling around you like smoke. The shower room was mostly empty—just you, toweling your hair dry, pretending not to notice when the door swung open behind you.

You glanced up at the mirror.

Natasha.

Her eyes locked on yours, sharp, unreadable.

You didn’t even get a word out before she was moving.

"The hell was that, huh?" Natasha hissed, voice low but dangerous. Her fingers curled tight around the front of your shirt, yanking you closer. "Why did you tell me to throw it?"

You stared back, heartbeat steady even as her grip bruised. You could see the cracks—frustration, confusion, maybe even fear splintering beneath that cold mask.

"Let go," you muttered.

She didn’t.

"Answer me first," she snapped. "You knew he'd be pissed. You set me up."

You exhaled through your nose, eyes flicking past her to make sure no one else was listening.

"I didn’t set you up," you said evenly. "I told you how to survive."

"How to survive?" She said angrily. "Surviving by not being able to move up a rank? Because of you, I failed this test. Because I trusted you. Because I thought we were friends. You keep telling me differently, and maybe I should listen. Maybe he was right."

"Right about what?" You furrowed your brows. You pushed her hands away.

"That you're jealous," Natasha answered, her voice hard.

"He said that?"

"You're holding me back because you think I'm better than you," She pressed like she had to say it out loud to believe it. "That’s why you wanted me to lose."

You stared at her, jaw tight, letting the silence stretch a beat too long. Letting her think she’d won whatever argument she thought this was.

Finally, you tilted your head, your voice quiet, calm, and almost bored.

"You believe that?"

"Yes," She nodded. "I do."

You let the words settle for a second.

"All of the other girls were right about you," Natasha shook her head. "You like being his favorite. You like doing his bidding and parading around here like you don't have to follow the rules."

"You think this is about me?" You scoffed. "This has nothing to do with me."

"Oh yeah?" Natasha challenged. "Then why are you always telling me to stay away from him?"

"I told you the truth," You defended. "This is stupid. You believe what you want. Just know if you put your hands on me again, you will regret it." You stepped into her space, taking advantage of the height difference and staring directly into her eyes.

"Fine," Natasha said. She didn't back away. She wasn't afraid of you. It was almost as if she was challenging you. The sound of the door swinging open pulled you apart. Natasha was the first to leave, limping past the girl interrupting you as the girl gave her a sympathetic look.

"Sorry," she muttered.

Natasha ignored her and kept walking.

You turned back to the mirror, eyes catching briefly on your reflection before you looked away. You hated how your face looked when it felt like this—too exposed and raw like the cracks were showing.

You took a breath. Tried to steady yourself.

It was stupid. You knew better. Friends weren’t a thing here. Not really. The girls didn’t like you; they never had. You learned early that it was easier and cleaner. People couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t let them close. Couldn’t take something from you if you never offered it.

And Natasha—she was supposed to be the same. Another girl trained to outlast you, outmatch you. Another person you were supposed to watch, measure, and be ready to step over when the time came.

Except she wasn’t. Not exactly. She didn’t hate you. She hadn’t tried to.

Maybe that’s what made you reckless. Letting yourself think for even a second that she was different. That maybe she could be something to you.

But wanting something like that was dangerous.

So maybe you shouldn’t try. Maybe it was better to shut it down now before it got worse.

You flexed your hands once, twice, before reaching for your towel like nothing had happened at all.

----> next part

[deer0skullz]

“Okay, maybe not every trans man, but if you go stealth you will receive male privilege”

Sure, maybe in very select circumstances, if a trans man is completely stealth and fully perceived as a cis man by his cis male peers, he could benefit from male privilege.

But, some people don’t seem to realise that being stealth isn’t a choice? It’s about how you’re perceived by other people, and you can’t just, choose that other people are going to perceive you as a cis man.

A stealth trans man still has a family and other people who know he’s trans or knew him pre-transition. So either

a) he could still potentially face misogyny from his family and people in his past or

b) he has to cut off everyone who ever knew him pre-transition, including close family members, in order to avoid losing his “stealth” status. That doesn’t sound very privileged to me.

Oh, and those old friends and family members can out you to others. It’s very easy to be outed no matter how stealthy you are, especially if you’re any sort of public figure. People find old pictures of you, people find old information on you that includes your deadname/ birth sex/ old pronouns/ etc, people find out you’ve had surgeries/ are taking hormones. And if you haven’t had bottom surgery, obviously having sex with anyone is going to get you outed, whether it’s just to them or whether they out you to other people.

Also, being stealth, for many people, is going to require full medical transition. There are obviously exceptions, but unfortunately for us transmascs, most perisex people who were AFAB are not going to be perceived as cis men without extensive work. So you can be stealth, as long as

you can afford gender affirming treatment

it’s not banned or restricted in your region

you aren’t going to be disowned/ abused/ etc for seeking it

you don’t have any health issues that would prevent medically transitioning

you actually want to medically transition

So if you have all those things, then you can probably receive some of that sweet sweet male privilege… Except that, (again, unfortunately) even people who have had surgeries and have been on hormones for years still get “clocked” and aren’t considered “fully passing”. So yeah, even fully medically transitioning doesn’t guarantee you’ll be perceived as a cis man.

There’s also another small issue… that many trans men don’t want to be stealth. Many of us don’t want to hide our identity for the off chance we’ll receive a small, highly conditional sense of privilege in a very select number of situations. Many trans men don’t want to “pass” and/ or have styles that are perceived as traditionally feminine. Many trans men want to engage with other trans people and get involved with wider trans and queer communities.

So yeah, this idea of the stealth trans guy who gets treated exactly like a cis man is in no way common or the norm. It’s impossible to hide that you’re trans in all situations, publicly and privately. And most people just don’t want to. So why are we using this near impossible, incredibly rare hypothetical as a key argument in transmasc discourse?

Disclaimer below because I’m constantly paranoid about being misinterpreted.

In case it wasn’t clear, all of this is from the perspective of a perisex trans man, who, unfortunately, does not know the personal experiences of every single trans man on the planet, so yes, there will be exceptions to everything I’ve said, but I’ve tried to involve as many perspectives as possible.

Also, I don’t want this to be seen as hate against trans guys who are stealth/ aren’t open about being trans/ want to “pass”/ want to be perceived as cis. More power to you and you have every right to be part of the community, but I feel this is just simply not the experience of the majority of trans men. And it shouldn’t be used as a “gotcha” by people who are trying to argue we don’t experience oppression.

And also, when I say “perceived as a cis man” I do mean the patriarchal perception of what a cis man “should” look like. Obviously, cis men come in all shapes and sizes like everyone else and the way you look should not be an indication of gender, but to discuss male privilege I have to discuss it from the patriarchal view of men and masculinity because that’s where male privilege comes from.

Also also yes, I used he/ him throughout this post but of course not every trans man uses he/ him solely or at all. I just thought since we’re specifically discussing binary, “passing” trans men it was more appropriate.

Sorry for the long ass post

[stillness-in-green]

On Child Abuse and Todoroki Touya

Being a response to this ask:

First, anon, I'd like to thank you for coming at the question of Touya's victimhood in such an honest, open spirit of curiosity. I've seen no shortage of people who, in not understanding why people call Touya a child abuse victim, flip over into belligerence and scorn, which is just no kind of tack to take about such a sensitive topic!

That said, child abuse is a broad, broad, broad topic, and not one I’m exceptionally well-read on, but I’ll try to hit the highlights as to why people—myself included—say Touya was a such a victim.  Forgive me if anything I say sounds too basic and therefore condescending; that’s not my intention, I just don’t want to assume your knowledge on anything, as you say you haven’t personally encountered abuse before.  If you’re very curious to learn more, there’s no shortage of resources out there, including just starting on Wikipedia’s articles on Child Abuse and Emotional Abuse and going from there.

(Sincerely, and speaking from my own experience, I would recommend everyone do at least some cursory reading on non-physical forms of abuse; it’s much better to know what the red flags are when you first start seeing them than have to enumerate them all only in retrospect.  Like, if absolutely nothing else, take five minutes to do an image search for the Power and Control Wheel and look it over.[1])

1: Do note that the P&E wheel was developed in the 1980s, based off of a series of focus group discussions about the shared experiences between women being abused by their male partners.  Because of that origin, in the original and still widely replicated version, there’s a segment about “abusing privilege” that doesn’t—because it was never designed to—take into account intersectionality, abuse between same-gendered partners, or women abusing men.  More modern versions have attempted to modify the wheel for more general purpose, gender-neutral education about abuse. I find it to be a valuable introductory tool, but it's not a universal authority and shouldn't be treated as such.

Obviously, trigger warnings for discussion of child abuse generally and Touya and the rest of the kids’ situations specifically below the jump.

Introduction

So, the big big thing to keep in mind here is that abuse is not limited to physical violence or sexual abuse.  Abuse can take all sorts of forms, even outside of intimate partner relationships: abuse of power, medical or professional abuse, spiritual abuse, financial abuse, and so on.  Any list you care to look up of “types of abuse” can be quite long, depending on how granular the list-writers feel like being or who their target audience is.  There’s also a great deal of overlap in types and terminology, so some sources will only include a few umbrella terms, whereas others will be much more extensive.

For example, a list identifying forms of abuse aimed at women is going to focus on different things than one about abuse aimed at the elderly, or children, or forms of institutionalized abuse (not to be confused with abuse taking place in institutional settings!).  No one much talks about financial abuse when detailing different forms of child abuse, but it would be a major point of discussion for domestic or elder abuse.  Comparatively, an exploration of domestic partner abuse may include neglect as a subtype of psychological/emotional abuse, whereas a similar explanation of child abuse will likely include it as a category unto itself.

Looking specifically at child abuse, Wikipedia explains that, depending on your sources, the term “child abuse” may or may not be used synonymously with “child maltreatment.”  If they’re considered separate terms, then “child abuse” is considered one subtype, with the other subtype being “child neglect.”  If abuse and maltreatment are used interchangeably, then neglect is a subtype of abuse.

More specific definitions and legislation about them vary hugely from place to place based on cultural standards, leeway given based on intentionality,[2] and how provable any given act might be based on clear evidence of harm.

2: As an example, a single parent whose child is suffering malnutrition because they’re living below the poverty line and can’t afford regular, nutritious meals is going to be regarded differently than a financially stable married couple who are actively choosing to spend their money on other things while letting their child go hungry.

Here are some definitions Wikipedia gives, as offered by various relevant organizations and laws:

The World Health Organization (WHO) defines child abuse and child maltreatment as "all forms of physical and/or emotional ill-treatment, sexual abuse, neglect or negligent treatment or commercial or other exploitation, resulting in actual or potential harm to the child's health, survival, development or dignity in the context of a relationship of responsibility, trust or power."  In the United States, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) uses the term child maltreatment to refer to both acts of commission (abuse), which include "words or overt actions that cause harm, potential harm, or threat of harm to a child", and acts of omission (neglect), meaning "the failure to provide for a child's basic physical, emotional, or educational needs or to protect a child from harm or potential harm".  The United States federal Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act defines child abuse and neglect as, at minimum, "any recent act or failure to act on the part of a parent or caretaker which results in death, serious physical or emotional harm, sexual abuse or exploitation" or "an act or failure to act which presents an imminent risk of serious harm".

                                    (From Wikipedia's article on child abuse)

Note how many references there are in that chonky paragraph to neglect and emotional harm.  That view of abuse is why pretty much everyone who calls Touya a victim of child abuse is using abuse as the umbrella term that includes neglect, so that’s the tack I’ll be taking here as well.  Even if I were considering abuse and neglect separately, though, there are several things Touya is subjected to that should be considered abuse in that more active sense!

There are two big category terms that I’d say are relevant to Touya's experience, both of which are recognized forms of child maltreatment: child neglect and emotional/psychological abuse.  You can make an argument for physical abuse as well, though it’s clearly not as extensive as what Shouto or Rei endured.  I’ll touch on each of those, as well as point to some of the damage experts predict in victims of those forms of abuse that—intentionally or not on Horikoshi’s part—we do see in Touya/Dabi.      

Child Neglect

The physical markers of child neglect are things like inadequate nutrition or shelter, but there are a number of other dimensions as well—some quite severe psychological damage can be done by e.g. a parent who regularly ignores their infant child crying.  The same World Health Organization report Wikipedia quoted above noted that emotional neglect can be characterized by “a lack of nurturance, encouragement, and support.”  A UK report from the same year included in its definition of neglect, “neglect of, or unresponsiveness to, a child’s basic emotional needs.”

The Wikipedia article itself includes a table listing types of child neglect with various (I assume hypothetical) example cases, among which is “emotional neglect,” described thusly: Guardian or parent give inadequate nurturing or affection. The parent or guardian fails to create an environment where the child feels secure, loved, wanted, worthy, etc.

So how does that all relate to Touya?

Touya seems at first glance to have been getting love and support aplenty in his youth—Enji supported him, was training him, raising him to be a Hero.  The family was doing okay at that point. Rei had Fuyumi because she wanted another child,[3] and while Enji, too, still “yearned” for a child with his ideal quirk combination—which he already knew neither Touya nor Fuyumi possessed!—the two of them nonetheless stopped, for a time, with Fuyumi and Touya.

3: Because multiple children could encourage each other, per Endeavor’s characterization of Rei’s stated desires.  I note that this is pretty much the same reasoning AFO gave Shimura Kotarou about having another child, just absent the calculated Hero bashing—children should have siblings so they can help each other out.  With the way the endgame went, I confess myself shocked that neither Rei nor her parents turned out to be on AFO’s payroll.

The specifics of the timeline are illustrative here.  Touya and Fuyumi are only eleven months apart in age, meaning Fuyumi was conceived only two months after Touya’s birth.  Comparatively, Fuyumi was closing in on three years old by the time Natsuo was conceived!  So, whatever his private desires, at that point in time, Enji was willing to abide, to trust his ambitions to Touya without continuing to try for a child closer to his ideal.

Crucially, at this juncture, Touya wanted exactly the situation he was in!  He was thrilled to have this commonality with his father, whom he clearly adored, and unlike Shouto later on, didn’t find Enji’s expectations to be any sort of burden or source of stress.  So while you could (and I will) still criticize the dynamic based on Enji’s ulterior motives, Touya’s lived experience was very happy.

Sidebar: Would that happiness have lasted?  I don’t know.  Enji’s support of Touya was so plainly conditional; there are so many things that could have disrupted it even if Touya’s health problems had never surfaced and Natsuo and Shouto were never born at all.  What if Touya decided he wanted to pursue a different path when he got older?  What if his youthful enthusiasm curdled into pridefulness and conceit in ways that made him fare poorly in the Hero Billboard charts?  What if he struggled in school and couldn’t get into UA?  Assuming that he couldn't surpass All Might within just a few short years of his debut, what would happen when All Might retired after Kamino with neither Endeavor nor [whatever Touya would have chosen for his Hero name] ever surpassing him? Myself, I tend to think that it’s unlikely that Enji and Rei would have stopped at two kids long-term anyway.  Even if things had continued going well, Enji’s hope for his idealized quirk combined with Rei’s willingness to have more children in the hopes of having a happy, mutually supportive household would probably have led them to having more children eventually.  Perhaps Touya wouldn’t have taken it so badly, if he weren’t already reeling from Enji’s rejection, but Shouto's existence would always have created complications in the dynamic because I don’t think Enji could have resisted starting to focus on what he would have seen as Shouto’s greater potential, and Touya surely would have noticed. In any case, something would always have happened because Enji’s ambitions, not any of his individual children’s responses to those ambitions, were the rot at the heart of the Todoroki family.

That happiness was based on a bad foundation, so it was always likely to crack.  Touya’s health issues just revealed what was already there: that Enji saw his children as vessels for his ambition, and when they couldn’t fill that role, he functionally discarded them.

This was emotionally catastrophic for Touya because, again, he adored his father and desperately wanted a relationship with him, but Enji did not provide him with any kind of alternative framework for a relationship outside of “be a Hero that can fulfill my ambition.”

Now, did Enji just casually toss him aside without a second glance?  No, of course not.  He didn’t even immediately start trying to have kids again!  He had enough invested in Touya that he did spend a while getting medical opinions and seeking out advice in hopes of “salvaging” Touya’s prospects; we see as much on the page.

(Honestly, the doc says this is unusual, but given the increasing diversity of quirks, how “unusual” could it possibly be?  I would think issues like this would be quite common!  What were the odds of Bakugou inheriting his father’s combustive sweat without also getting his father’s immunity to those combustions, for example?)

For Touya, though, the shift was obvious.  Enji stopped spending time with him; they didn’t have anything to do together if it wasn’t training.  Instead, his father started being harsher, raising his voice when he spoke to Touya, telling him that this was for his own good.  All that affection and support, gone overnight.

(Note the jaggedness of Enji’s first talk bubble, and the lingering sharp corners to his second one, and compare them both to the smooth, rounded talk bubbles in the dojo scene or the doctor's analysis above.)

There did seem to be a period in which Enji tried to convince Touya to give up on the Hero goal, but Touya didn't care about being a Hero for its own sake; he cared about it because it was the only source of pride or connection Enji provided.  He was asking Touya to give up the one thing Touya knew Enji valued, and that also meant giving up the thing that represented their bond.  Touya loved him and didn’t want to give that bond up, so he kept stubbornly trying to push his way through, insisting he could handle it.

We have no evidence that Enji ever managed to get into words that he’d love Touya regardless of whether or not Touya could surpass All Might, but even if he did, Touya clearly didn’t believe him—and why would he, given that it’s obvious that was still Enji’s priority?  If Touya was still loved either way, why did his bonding time with his dad dry up overnight?  Why was his dad still obsessing over news reports about All Might?  And, most importantly, why would his parents start trying to have children again?

Enji’s most important goal at the time was surpassing All Might; he consciously chose to keep pursuing that goal even though doing so made it crystal clear that anything he might have told Touya about how it was okay if Touya couldn’t is just a platitude.

Note how Rei explicitly said in the scene above that Touya knew very well what Enji was hoping for from his children, and them continuing to have more in light of that knowledge would be a horrible cruelty.  Again, that’s apparent in the ages of the kids: as long as Touya’s fire was holding up, it was just him and Fuyumi, but practically as soon as his fire started hurting him, suddenly more siblings were being attempted?

That’s all to say, I don’t for a second believe that Enji only proposed having more kids in order to make Touya give up.  The page above is Enji making a textually cruel decision which he justified using the well-being of his son but which in actuality revolved around letting him get back to pursuing his ambition, which having a relationship with his son no longer furthered.

Let me copy back in those definitions of emotional neglect:

A lack of nurturance, encouragement, and support; neglect of, or unresponsiveness to, a child’s basic emotional needs; inadequate nurturing or affection.  The parent or guardian fails to create an environment where the child feels secure, loved, wanted, worthy, etc.

Enji’s support was conditional.  His nurturing revolved 100% around nurturing the growth of a future Hero, and that nurturing itself was pretty flawed, given Endeavor’s ideas about what being a Hero means.  When Touya tried to demand support, wanting to get back what he had before, Enji just shut him down.  It’s patently obvious that, at the age of three and a half years old, Touya did not feel secure, loved, wanted, or worthy in that home environment.  Over the next ten years, it would get progressively worse.

Before I move on to the more active abuse that Enji would come to perpetuate, I want to move away from definitions and briefly talk about some other recognized acts and consequences of child neglect.  All per Wikipedia:

• Act: Allowing the child to witness violence or severe abuse between parents or adults.

We don’t see Touya here directly, but this happened immediately after Touya invited Enji to come up to Sekoto Peak, so he presumably did at least see his father storming off bellowing Rei’s name at the top of his lungs.  Also, absolutely nothing about this scene suggests to me that it was the first time something like this had happened—Shoto calling it “bullying” suggests it’s a regular occurrence and Fuyumi hiding and covering both her own and Natsuo’s ears also reads as something she learned how to do, not something she was doing for the very first time in this scene.  I don’t feel it’s a stretch, then, to chalk it up as part of the form “child neglect” took for Touya as well.

• Act: Not getting the child adequate medical care.

Too many panels to choose from here!  From the evidence of the flashbacks, Touya’s fire started burning him when he was three and a half; he was then intentionally and regularly doing training that resulted him getting burned for ten more years.  Even if you argue that he started hiding that training after his attack on Shouto led to Endeavor getting more distant from him than ever, he would still have been doing that training more openly for something like four solid years.  In their argument just before that attack, Enji even described him as “covered in burns.”

So, if he was covered in burns, was consistently burning himself for years, was he getting professional medical treatment?  (God knows he wasn’t getting psychological help.)  Or would that have raised too many uncomfortable questions that could have led to Social Services showing up at the Number 2 Hero’s house in broad daylight right when the neighbors could see it?

That question doesn’t just indict Enji, by the way; it goes for Rei, too.  It’s telling that Rei’s response to having a traumatic break and burning Shouto was to embrace him, weeping and apologizing, and try to apply ice to the burn, while the only response we ever see to Touya’s burns, following that early medical consultation, is him getting manhandled and shouted at.

• Consequences: Children from neglectful homes are unlikely to view alternative caregivers as being a source of safety, and instead typically show an increase in aggressive and hyperactive behaviors which may disrupt healthy or secure attachment; they’re often described as glib, manipulative and disingenuous in their interactions with others as they move through childhood.

        o Don’t regard other caretakers as being a source of safety:

(I’m aware I’m cheating a little here in that Rei was not an alternative caretaker, she was his literal mother, while AFO and the Evil Orphanage staff were transparently Sus As Hell.  Still, I think the shoe fits.)

        o Aggressive behavior:

(See also him burning down the Evil Orphanage on his way out.  Also see Wikipedia’s list of symptoms for “Psychomotor agitation” and marvel at how many of those behaviors you could connect to Touya and/or Dabi if you wanted to evaluate him on “hyperactive behaviors” as well.)

        o Manipulative and disingenuous:

(I don’t necessarily think Touya was consciously being an emotionally manipulative shithead here, but this is emotionally manipulative shithead behavior all the same.)

Moving on now to the other major relevant topic...         

Emotional/Psychological Abuse

In the context of discussions of abuse, these two terms are generally used interchangeably.  Due to that, and the fuzziness of terminology that I mentioned at the outset, there’s a lot of overlap between definitions/examples of this sort of abuse and child neglect—sometimes neglect is considered a subtype, for example.  The Wikipedia articles here are a bit vague and all over the place, so for this section I sought out sites more specifically tailored to the topic of child emotional abuse.  (Here, here and here.)

Consistent patterns are immediately visible in what sort of treatment is generally considered to constitute emotional abuse in the context of a parent/child relationship.  Several would apply to all the Todoroki children, some exclusively to Shouto, but I’ll go through the ones that seem relevant to Touya.

Rejection/Ignoring: Communicating to a child through words and conduct that he or she is unwanted and/or worthless.  Being consistently absent or emotionally unavailable.  Continually ignoring or rejecting them.  Never expressing positive emotions, showing kindness or congratulating the child on their successes.

A lot of overlap with neglect here that I’ve already covered, but note how, once Touya’s health problems kicked in, we only ever see Touya and Enji interactions come in the form of Touya begging for his father’s attention; Rei likewise said that all Touya wanted was for his father to look at him, which Enji refused to do.

This refusal is most literal in the volume version of Chapter 302, where the added pages really amp up that watching/seeing theme of Enji’s I talked about in my reply to your previous ask.  After Touya attacked Shouto, Enji ordered Rei to keep her eyes on Touya; in their later confrontation in the lead-up to Sekoto Peak, Enji brought this up again, demanding to know why she didn’t stop him when watching him was all he asked her to do.  When she tearfully said that she couldn’t stop Touya, Enji defensively, furiously shouted that she had to, because he (Enji) wouldn’t “watch.”

(With thanks to @codenamesazanka, here's the Viz digital release version, rather more colloquial than the Japanese, as is often the case with Caleb Cook's localizations for Enji.)

Contextually, I’m sure he was saying he wasn’t going to be the one to look after the kid, but the words also play off his arc theme by showing what Enji not only neglected but explicitly refused to look at/see/watch/pay attention to.

Verbal Abuse: Threatening, cursing, or yelling at children.  Consistently humiliating or criticizing them, especially in front of others.  Blaming or scapegoating them for the parent’s own abuse.

At the same time that Touya was now having to beg for any attention, the only attention he did get became negative.  I don’t think Enji literally cursed at him in any of the scenes we see, but his language became noticeably rougher and sharper in ways that the Viz official release localizes as including cursing, even though he wasn’t e.g. directly calling Touya swears.  (That is, the English translation has Enji saying, “Dammit!” in amidst his rants, but no directly addressed profanity like “bastard” or “asshole.”)

I leave an extended discussion of that localization choice to those with a greater understanding of the Japanese context, but Enji did unequivocally yell, both at Touya and at everyone else, in front of other family members and at volumes other family members couldn’t help but overhear.

He also consistently treated Touya as if Touya’s pleas for attention or secret training were the problem when the problem was very obviously Enji’s own neglect.  “Why won’t you stop?”  “Why don’t you get it?”  It’s not as direct as, say, beating Touya and then saying the beating was his own fault, but he blamed Touya for hurting himself, blamed Rei for not intervening, when Touya’s injuries were a direct result of Enji refusing to acknowledge that his responsibility for his child’s emotional well-being should take precedence over his desperately shallow desire to stand on top of an awards podium.

As to threats, intimidation in all forms is another one of those things that crops up all over abuse lists.  While Enji didn’t overtly threaten Touya, lord knows his body language was scary as hell—all that looming and glaring and grimacing!  We know he would destroy things when he got angry enough—as seen in his trashed dojo after All Might announced his retirement—and destruction of property[4] is a frequent example of psychological abuse via intimidation.

4: As of e.g. throwing household items during fights, slamming doors or on walls, or especially breaking the victim’s personal belongings.

We do also see one instance of him manhandling Touya in a way that would quite clearly qualify as outright physically abusive in a domestic partner relationship.

In the context of urgently checking one’s child for injuries, this is slightly more forgivable, but the urgency here wasn’t really about Touya’s health; it was about how he was continuing to disobey Enji’s wishes, and the indication that Rei wasn’t doing what Enji wanted her to, either.  Note Touya’s wide-eyed, rigid expression at the rough handling. 

I don’t think there’s enough of an established pattern to conclusively ding Enji as physically abusive towards Touya, but on the other hand, the general consensus of experts (as I understand it) is that labeling a relationship emotionally abusive requires a consistent, persistent pattern of abusive behavior (because it’s easy to handwave off individual uses of ugly language as just the unintended result of speaking in anger or a making a joke that didn’t land), whereas a physically abusive relationship can be judged as such based on a single violent incident (because it’s harder to make convincing excuses for hitting someone).

In that sense, and based on how he treated Rei and Shouto, I would not be hard-pressed to believe that Enji was all too ready to use physical force dragging Touya around against his will (out of the dojo, back to his room, to Rei so she could administer first aid for his burns, etc.).  That would, again, easily qualify as abuse in the sense of domestic partner violence; while I can see the argument that it’s different with kids, even the one instance of it we see already raises my eyebrows, and my likelihood of calling it child abuse would increase the more frequently it was happening.

Manipulation/Exploitation: Manipulating a child, forcing a responsibility on them without regard to their development, not recognizing their individuality, having unreasonable expectations/unreasonable demands, comparing them to others/their siblings.

This is all most applicable to Shouto, obviously, but it’s also where you can clearly see Enji’s treatment of Touya as abusive even when he and Touya were both very happy.  Remember, Touya wasn’t even four yet when his ice nature started asserting itself, so all that stuff about surpassing All Might was a responsibility/expectation Enji was pushing on a three-year old—a literal toddler!—absolutely without regard to anything Touya might have wanted or chosen if left to his own devices.  He didn’t keep pushing once it became clear Touya wouldn’t be able to meet those expectations, of course, but he also didn’t demonstrate for Touya any other ways to be close to him/earn his approval.

Also, while I still think him wanting to push ahead with having more children is more about fulfilling his own ambitions than genuinely helping Touya, he did still frame the decision as being about Touya.  Specifically, he wanted to do it to “make” Touya give up; it was a manipulative tactic chosen specifically in hopes of breaking Touya’s stubbornness because Enji couldn’t find a more appropriate method of convincing Touya to give up on pursuing Heroism.

Closing out this section, here are some Dabi-relevant consequences I found noted for emotional/psychological abuse, per Wikipedia:

    • Poor self-esteem:

(I know this is from a scene where he was proclaiming his own capability, but what strikes me as indicative is the way he unironically referred to himself as Endeavor’s “creation.”  Not the wording of someone with a good strong sense of independent self! Refer back also to his calling himself and Natsuo “failed creations.”)

    • Destructive behavior, angry acts such as fire setting: (Waves at all of Dabi)

    • Withdrawal, difficulty forming relationships, isolated from their parents, have few (if any) friends:

(If you don’t think this qualifies, see also Dabi’s stand-offish relationship with the League.  I think he did have a measure of care for them, but it was pretty stunted, as well as filtered through several layers of variably plausible belief that they only mattered to him insomuch as they were relevant to his goals.)

    • Difficulty controlling strong emotions:

(See also Dabi’s swings into grinning, off-balance mania.)

    • Suicide.

(To my eyes, this desire to commit a murder-suicide with his father goes back at least at far as the first war—because I’m not confident in Dabi’s ability or desire to survive that blue-flame Prominence Burn Best Jeanist interrupted—and maybe even all the way back to Dabi’s “birth” praying at his own memorial photo at the family shrine, what with Dabi’s very name meaning “cremation” and all.)         

Child Abuse in Japanese Resources

One of the things I made sure to do over the course of writing this piece was look up resources actually from Japan on the topic of child abuse, just to be sure that their conception of what constitutes abuse didn’t diverge in some unexpected way from my English-language resources.  They did not—everything I covered above can also be found on Japanese web resources on child abuse—but they did, interestingly, include some things not covered by my English resources, things I take to be more specific to Japanese law and/or culture.  I want to touch on those briefly before I wrap this up.

(The specific phrasing I use below is taken from the English-language version of the website Lights On Children, a Tokyo-based NPO focused on raising awareness and resources for children living in alternative care situations like children’s homes or foster families, but similar points were found on other websites as well.)

Inflicting burns as a form of physical abuse.

I didn’t discuss it specifically above because most of what I was working from was specific lists/infographics about signs of non-physical abuse, but I noticed on this site—and it’s true for English sites as well!—that burns on a child are a well-recognized sign of child abuse, ubiquitous on any list of tells for physical abuse.  I wouldn’t suspect Horikoshi had that in mind specifically when brainstorming Shouto and the rest of his family situation, but it is notable that Shouto's most obvious injury, the one that gets his mother institutionalized, is a facial burn.

Touya hid his injuries, nominally so Enji didn’t realize he was still training and shout at him all the time or take more drastic measures to make him stop, but I gotta say, a school nurse doing a routine health check-up would not know the difference between burns Touya got from self-taught training and burns Touya got from his famous flame-wielding Hero father.  The fact that they were hidden, and especially that they were on his torso rather than his limbs, should be screamingly suspicious to any semi-trained professional, and I truly wonder what the in-universe explanation is for how Touya got through 7+ years of regular school health screenings without Endeavor getting into serious trouble.

Not taking the child to a medical institution/hospital if they are in serious need of care.

This is another one that was ubiquitous under acts that constitute neglect.  Japan has universal health care, you see, so there’s even less excuse for not getting your kids medical help if they need it than there would be in the U.S.[5]  This goes back to my questions about whether Touya was ever taken to see a doctor/the emergency room to address his burns.  Small ones I could see Enji and Rei plausibly justifying taking care of at the house, which, given the nature of Enji’s job and training regimen, was presumably well-stocked to handle such first aid. That huge band across Touya’s entire abdomen in Chapter 302, not so much.

5: My research suggests that all children under a certain age are eligible for Medicaid in the U.S. regardless of whether or not their parents qualify, so denying your child needed care is still heckin’ illegal here, too!  However, health insurance in the U.S. is such a horrible morass that it wouldn’t surprise me if plenty of parents don’t know—or at least could plausibly claim that they don’t—about hospital requirements to provide care for kids regardless of their parents’ ability to pay.

Discriminatory treatment among siblings.

This one barely came up at all in English-language resources but was super common on the Japanese sites, I assume because the country’s deeply engrained problems with patriarchal attitudes is more likely to result in that kind of disparity between the treatment given to sons and daughters, or the oldest son compared to basically everyone else.  I’ve also seen enough examples in anime of wildly differing treatment of adopted children—or step-children!—versus blood-related children that I assume it’s a reflection of some real-life precedent!

The relevance for the Todoroki children is, I trust, obvious.

Abusive actions to siblings.

I discussed above how allowing children to witness domestic partner violence is itself an act of child abuse, even if the abuser never lays a finger on the child themselves, and the same goes here.  If anything, it’s even more stringent: the stuff about partner violence tends to specify letting a child witness it, while that qualifier of a child's perception is not present for sibling abuse.  Abusing one child in any way—physically, sexually, psychologically, or via neglect—constitutes psychological abuse for all children in the home.

For the Todorokis, then, what Enji (or Rei!) did to any individual one of the children—be it the isolation and abusive training Shouto underwent, the rejection and verbal abuse Touya endured, or even the disregard and parentification Fuyumi and Natsuo had to deal with[6]—qualifies as abuse of all of them.

6: More prominent for Fuyumi, but Natsuo talked about the meals he cooked as well.  I don’t think we know what-all the housekeeper did, how much she was around, or how old the kids were when she retired (at least old enough that Enji didn’t bother replacing her) but Fuyumi’d been trying to protect Natsuo from their family’s damage since she was seven years old.

Wrap-Up

So, I hope this has all clarified for you, anon, why people so readily call Touya an abuse victim.  He was—they all were!  I should also note, before I let readers go, that there’s not really a question of severity here, either: numerous studies have shown that the impact of psychological abuse and/or child neglect is no less damaging—and may even be more damaging—than the harm done by physical or sexual abuse in isolation.  So it’s not like Touya’s just wildly overreacting or some kind of Bad Egg—while obviously not all abuse victims grow up into violent criminals, a certain percentage of them do, and Touya falls into that category.

It’s one of the things I always liked about the Todoroki plot, really.  Four children, all of whom had wildly different responses to the abuse they suffered, allows room for one of them to be completely (and entertainingly!) unhinged about it without consequently implying that abuse will inevitably turn victims into violent monsters.

Thanks for the ask!

[undirmanjarpakdingo]

Its near impossible to get Sylus drunk. I mean he's an ancient dragon for fucks sake, he can drown half the Onychinus alcohol reserve and still be in sound enough mind to drive back home while doing calculus.

While its nice to have a forever designated driver, his ridiculous consistency gets on your last nerves. Because who has the 4 minute long video of you belting out Justin Bieber after shots? Sylus. Who never lets you forget how wasted you were at the twin's birthday party? Sylus. Who has a whole folder of pictures of you passed out in the shotgun with your mouth open? Sylus.

So you were dead set on getting him drunk this time. Even if it meant sneaking in something a little stronger and stranger than alcohol (nothing outside the N109 substance abuse laws, but again, not many things were).

You were so ready. Your phone whipped out as a faint flush covered his cheeks, a sense of confusion settling in his eyes like he had forgotten what this feeling felt like. This gestures slurred as he sunk into the sofa, lines settling on his face and you cheekily suggested karaoke.

Amid his distant look he took in a pillowing breath, and you felt you were on the preface of finding out something no one else knew. A side that could only surface under the influence, a side of a man you knew and yet didn't. A strangeness sparked in his eyes as you waited for him to speak.

"I hate my hair."

Your smile dropped instantly "What?"

Sylus buried his face in his hands, "I-it keeps sticking out," He wailed, "Takes too long to style and the gel makes my fingers sticky-"

"No0000" You cried out, "I spent that much money on that shady drug only to find out that you're an insecure drunk?!"

"I'm going to shave it off." Sylus continued decidedly, hearing not a word of what you said. His face suddenly hardened, like that of a warrior coming to terms with a fate pre-written, before his lower lip quivered, "Like I could pull off being bald."

This would be a long night, entirely centered around hair care routines and you only had yourself to blame.

[xenyasplacex]

Baby Trapped— Chapter 5

Warming: Mentions of murder, Physical abuse, mental abuse, swearing etc.

Summary: Chris spends some time with his daughter while Matt and Chris make a surprise visit…and a surprise phone call.

A/N: HEHEHE. There’s probably like… 3 more chapters.

Chapter 4 — Chapter 6

Chris sat on the edge of his bed, an old photo trembling between his fingers. The edges were frayed, the colors slightly dulled with time, but the image was still clear. Him and his mom. He couldn’t have been older than eight, grinning up at the camera with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She was laughing, head tilted back, curls bouncing. She always laughed like that—loud and full, like happiness was something that lived inside her.

His thumb traced over the image of her hand on his shoulder. He could still feel it, even now. A gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance—I’m here. But she wasn’t. Not anymore.

“Daddy?”

Chris flinched, quickly shoving the picture under his pillow. Adriana stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was in her favorite pink pajamas, her stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. The sight of her knocked the air out of him for a second—she had his eyes, but the way she looked at him, so open, so full of trust, that was all her mother.

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

Adriana nodded, stepping closer. “Who was that?”

Chris froze. “Who was what?”

“The picture,” she said simply, tilting her head. “The lady. Who was she?”

Chris’s stomach twisted. She had seen.

He forced a small smile. “That was… my mom.”

Adriana blinked up at him. “Oh. I never met her.”

“No,” Chris said softly. “You didn’t.”

Adriana frowned. “Why not?”

Chris swallowed hard. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t say the words—couldn’t tell his four-year-old daughter that the woman in the picture had been beaten to death, that the man who did it shared her last name.

So he lied.

“She, uh… she got really sick when I was younger.” He forced out the words, hating the way they tasted in his mouth. “She had to go away.”

Adriana’s frown deepened, but she nodded. “Oh… like how the fish at the pet store go away when they stop moving?”

Chris’s throat tightened. He nodded. “Yeah. Like that.”

Adriana climbed onto the bed beside him, resting her head against his arm. “I wish I got to meet her.”

Chris exhaled slowly, his hand instinctively coming up to smooth her curls. He wished that too. More than anything. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “Me too, baby.”

Chris kept his hand in Adriana’s hair, gently combing his fingers through the soft curls as she settled against him. Her tiny body was warm, and for a moment, he let himself imagine what it would’ve been like if things had been different—if his mom were still here, if she had gotten to meet Adriana, if she had gotten to be a grandma.

He imagined the way she would’ve spoiled her, sneaking her extra cookies when Chris wasn’t looking, spinning her around the kitchen while music played from the old radio. She would’ve told Adriana stories, would’ve made her feel safe, the way she always had for him.

But none of that would ever happen. Because she wasn’t here.

Adriana shifted against him, her small fingers idly playing with the hem of his sleeve. “Daddy?”

“Yeah?” His voice was quieter than he meant it to be.

“Was she nice?”

Chris felt something crack in his chest. Nice? That word felt so small, so incomplete. She was everything. She was warmth and safety and laughter and late-night kitchen talks. She was the feeling of being tucked in at night, the sound of a lullaby hummed under her breath. She was the one who made the world feel okay—even when it wasn’t.

But Adriana was four. She wouldn’t understand all of that.

So instead, Chris just smiled softly and said, “Yeah, baby. She was really nice.”

Adriana nodded, her grip on his sleeve tightening. “Did she love you?”

Chris inhaled sharply. It was such a simple question. But it shouldn’t have been.

“She did,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than anything.”

Adriana was quiet for a moment before she looked up at him, her big brown eyes serious. “Do you think she would’ve loved me too?”

Chris felt like something inside him had shattered. He turned to face her fully, cupping her tiny face in his hands. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed. “She would have loved you so, so much. More than you can even imagine.”

Adriana smiled sleepily, as if that answer was enough. But it wasn’t enough. Not for Chris. Because she should have been here. She should have been able to love Adriana in real life, not just in stories and old photographs.

Adriana yawned and snuggled in closer to his chest. “I wish she was still here.”

Chris swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Me too, baby,” he whispered. “Me too.”

As Adriana drifted off, Chris reached under the pillow and pulled the photograph back out, staring at it in the dim light. She was gone. And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t change that.

But he could keep her memory alive. For Adriana. For himself.

And maybe… maybe that would have to be enough.

ㅤㅤ

   -------˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹ 𐦍 ˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹-------

The waiting room smelled like bleach, sweat, and something metallic, something stale. Nick and Matt sat in stiff plastic chairs, their backs rigid, staring at the scuffed floor as they waited. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed incessantly, casting a sickly glow over the room.

Nick tapped his fingers against the table, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He didn’t want to be here. Every part of him screamed to get up and walk out, but he forced himself to stay. Chris was slipping, falling further under Aaliyah’s control, and they were running out of time. They had to do something—anything.

Matt, sitting beside him, was eerily still, his hands clasped together in his lap. His face was pale, blank, like he wasn’t really there. Nick knew this wasn’t easy for him either. They’d spent years avoiding this place, avoiding him, and now they were willingly stepping back into the past.

San Quentin Rehabilitation Center loomed over the bay like a scar on the landscape. It had been labeled a “rehabilitation center” in recent years, but everyone knew what it really was: the most violent prison in California. A place filled with lifers, men who had long since lost any hope of walking free. Murderers, gang leaders, abusers—monsters.

And their father fit right in.

The heavy door buzzed.

Nick’s spine stiffened as their father walked in.

Even after all these years, seeing him was like getting hit in the chest with a hammer. He looked… smaller. Thinner. His once-imposing frame had withered slightly, his gray prison uniform hanging loosely off him. His hair was streaked with silver, and there were deeper lines around his eyes.

But that presence was still there. The same suffocating weight that had haunted them as kids. The same cold, quiet menace behind his dark eyes.

He looked at them, and then, of all things, he smirked.

“Well, well,” he drawled, sitting down across from them. His shackled hands rested on the table, the metal cuffs clinking slightly. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you two again.”

Nick clenched his fists under the table. Don’t react. Don’t let him get to you.

“We’re not here for a reunion,” he said, voice cold.

Their father chuckled, shaking his head. “No, of course not. So? What is it, then? Come to tell me how much you hate me? Finally work up the nerve to get all that bottled-up resentment off your chest?”

Matt swallowed hard but didn’t speak.

Nick didn’t hesitate. “Chris is in trouble.”

For the first time, something shifted in their father’s expression. His smirk faltered slightly. “Chris?”

“He’s stuck in a bad situation,” Matt said, his voice quieter than usual. “With his wife. She’s hurting him.”

Their father didn’t react right away. He just stared at them, unreadable. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair. “Hurting him how?”

Nick exhaled sharply, his hands tightening into fists. “She’s beating him. Controlling him. Manipulating him. And now…” His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “Now it’s worse than ever.”

A beat of silence.

Then, something in their father’s expression changed.

His jaw tightened. His smirk disappeared. He sat up straighter, his eyes darkening.

“And he’s still with her?”

Nick nodded. “He thinks he has to stay.”

“He thinks it’s his fault,” Matt added. “That if he just tries harder, she’ll stop hurting him.”

Their father inhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the table. Then he scoffed. “Jesus Christ. Just like your mother.”

Nick felt something in him snap.

His entire body went rigid, his breath locking in his throat. The rage inside him burned hot—white-hot, blinding.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

Their father met his eyes, tilting his head slightly. “I’m just saying—”

“I said don’t,” Nick snapped. His fingers dug into the table so hard he thought it might break.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension was suffocating.

Matt, looking between them, finally cleared his throat. “We didn’t come here to talk about Mom,” he said carefully. “We came here because, like it or not, you know more about this than anyone else. You know how to break someone down, how to trap them in a situation they think they can’t leave. We need to know how to undo that.”

Their father studied them both, his gaze sharp, calculating.

Then, with a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But on one condition.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“When Chris leaves, you bring me a bar of chocolate, Colgate toothpaste, thirty bucks, a loofah, and a pair of fluffy socks.”

Matt blinked. “What?”

Their father shrugged. “You think prison’s all stabbings and riots? I have needs too, you know.” He held up a shackled wrist. “This place may be a hellhole, but you learn to appreciate the little things. I need a decent toothbrush, I want my feet warm, and I like chocolate.”

Nick stared at him, deadpan. “You’re negotiating with us?”

Their father smirked. “Supply and demand, kid.”

Matt looked at Nick, half in disbelief. “Are we really about to bribe our father with fluffy socks?”

Nick ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Then he looked back at their father, voice flat. “Fine. Whatever. Just tell us what we need to do.”

Their father studied them for a moment longer, then leaned in.

“You want to get Chris out?” He exhaled through his nose. “Then you need to make him see the truth. And not just tell him—show him. Because right now? He doesn’t believe he’s trapped. He believes this is his fault.”

Nick and Matt exchanged a glance.

“She’s convinced him that he’s the problem,” their father continued. “That if he just tries harder, does better, then she’ll stop hurting him. That’s how abusers work. You make them believe that they are the failure, that they are the ones in the wrong.”

Nick swallowed the lump in his throat. “How do we break that?”

Their father leaned back, his expression dark. “Pain.”

Matt’s face twisted. “What?”

“Not physical pain,” their father clarified. “But you need to make him feel what he’s lost. Make him realize how deep he’s buried in this. Right now, his world is his wife. Nothing outside of that matters. So you have to make him see past it. Make him lose something that shakes him awake.”

Nick’s mind was racing.

“And if that doesn’t work?” Matt asked.

Their father shrugged. “Then you drag him out by force.”

Silence stretched between them.

Nick’s stomach twisted “…That’s not really an option.”

“Why not?”

“…he has a kid with her.”

There was a heavy silence hanging in the air after Matt’s words, a silence thick with the weight of the truth. Their father leaned back in his chair, the chains around his wrists clinking as he did, a cold smirk spreading across his face.

Nick’s pulse quickened, and he could feel Matt’s body stiffen beside him. Whatever their father was about to say, they weren’t ready for it.

Their father’s eyes gleamed with a kind of twisted amusement, and after a beat, he chuckled, low and dark.

“Chris is baby-trapped,” he said with a laugh that made Nick’s stomach churn.

Nick’s blood ran cold, his throat tightening at the words. “What the hell do you mean, ‘baby-trapped’?” he shot back, his voice barely above a growl.

Matt turned to look at Nick, his brow furrowing in confusion, equally baffled by what their father was insinuating. He had never heard of such a thing before.

Their father gave a shrug, the smile on his face remaining as chilling as ever. “It’s a classic,” he said, as if the words were some well-known, accepted fact. “Get them pregnant, make them feel like they’ve got no way out. It’s simple. It’s manipulation at its finest.”

Nick blinked, the words catching him off guard, but Matt spoke before he could. “You did the same thing to Mom?”

Their father gave another dark laugh, his eyes glinting. “Exactly. Same thing. Got her pregnant, made sure she stayed. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?” His smirk deepened. “You trap someone, make them feel like they’ve got nowhere to go, and it’s done. She couldn’t leave me after that. She wasn’t just stuck with me. She was stuck with the kid.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, letting them sink in. “And you know what? It worked.”

The air in the room felt suffocating now, the weight of his admission almost too much to bear. Nick’s mind raced, memories flooding back of their mother—how she’d always been so distant, so lost, even before everything had gotten worse. She’d been afraid, Nick realized now. She’d been trapped.

Matt’s face was pale, his jaw working as he tried to make sense of what their father had just confessed. “You made her stay? You trapped her?” His voice was thick with disbelief and disgust.

Their father shrugged again, unconcerned. “It’s not like she had many options, did she? It’s not like she could run off and start a new life with two kids. It’s simple psychology. You make them feel like they’re responsible for everything, that if they leave, they’ll ruin everything.” He leaned forward, the smirk never leaving his face. “Same thing’s happening to Chris. Aaliyah’s got him thinking that if he leaves, he’ll destroy everything. She’s got him twisted. She gets him to believe that his fault, that if he just tries harder, maybe she’ll stop. And now… now she’s got that kid to use against him. He’s stuck.”

Nick’s heart hammered in his chest, his head spinning. That’s what Aaliyah had done to Chris. She had manipulated him, made him believe that staying was his only option, that if he tried hard enough, everything would go back to normal. And now, with their daughter… it was the perfect trap.

A cold laugh escaped their father’s lips as he looked at them, almost pleased with himself. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s a foolproof plan. Get the kid in the mix, make them feel like they’re responsible for the child’s well-being, and there’s no way out. It’s like I always used to tell your mother: You leave, you ruin everything. You’ll take the kid and break up the family. You’ll be the one who destroys all of this.”

Nick’s body trembled with rage, his fists clenched beneath the table. The words coming from their father were like a knife to the gut. It was like he had no empathy, no remorse for what he had done. He’d stolen their mother’s life, made her believe there was no escape. And now, he was doing the same thing to Chris.

Matt’s voice cracked slightly as he asked, “And you think that’s just fine? That Chris should stay in that relationship?”

Their father didn’t hesitate. “I’m just telling you how it works. It’s the cycle. It always plays out like this. She gets pregnant, he stays, and then they both drown in it. It’s what happens when you give people no choice but to stay. If he leaves, he gets hit with a child support bill, if he stays, the kid grows up around violence and pain.”

Nick couldn’t contain himself any longer. He slammed his fist onto the table. “You sick bastard,” he hissed, his voice trembling with fury.

Their father met his gaze, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “Calm down, kid. It’s the truth.”

Matt, however, was quieter. He looked at Nick, then back at their father. “So, if we take Chris, drag him out of there… that’ll work?”

Their father sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully. “…I’m really not sure,”

Matt sat silently for a moment, the weight of their father’s words sinking in. The prison’s sterile smell, the sound of distant voices echoing down the hall, felt distant now. His mind was preoccupied with Chris. They had to get him out. But the kid… how could they save the child from this, too?

Nick was already getting ready to head for the door, eager to leave, but Matt lingered for a second longer. His eyes flickered to their father, who was still lounging in his chair, his face unreadable.

Matt took a breath, his voice quieter than before. “How do we get both him and the kid out?”

Their father’s eyes narrowed as he processed the question. For a moment, he just stared at Matt, the faintest glimmer of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You want both of them out?” he asked, leaning back in his chair as though the question was some sort of puzzle. “You sure about that?”

Matt didn’t hesitate. “You heard me. Chris is trapped, and the kid… she’s got that baby wrapped around his neck. If we get him out, we need to get the kid too.”

Their father chuckled darkly. “Kid’s a pawn. She’ll use that baby to keep him under her thumb for as long as it takes. If you want to take both of them, then you’ll need to think bigger. It’s not just about pulling him away from her. It’s about breaking the connection.”

Nick was still standing near the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. “We’re wasting time,” he muttered, already impatient.

But Matt stood firm. “Just give me something, alright?” He turned back to their father, desperate. “Chris is stubborn, and the kid’s the one thing that’s gonna hold him back. How do we get them both out of that house?”

Their father sighed deeply, his hands resting on the table. He looked as though he was weighing the situation in his mind, considering all the possible outcomes.

“You need to make her a liability,” he said finally, his voice low and measured. “You take away her power. Once she’s lost that control over him—over both of them—then you can pull them out.”

Matt frowned, not fully understanding. “How do we do that?”

Their father’s lips curled into a smile, a slow, methodical smile. “You make her a threat. You make it so she’s the one who’s dangerous to him and the kid. You don’t just pull him out and walk away. You make her so toxic that the situation’s no longer worth it to him. And then he’ll leave.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “How do we make her a threat? She’s already dangerous.”

Their father’s voice turned sharper. “No. She’s just controlling him. She knows how to manipulate him into staying. You need to show Chris that she’s the one who’s hurting them both. Not just the beatings, but the fact that she’s using the kid to keep him there. She’s got him convinced that if he leaves, the kid will suffer. But if you make it clear to him that staying with her will ruin everything—for him and for the kid—he’ll walk.”

Nick shook his head. “But if he leaves with the kid—”

“The kid’s not the issue,” their father interrupted, his tone firm. “Chris has to see that she’s the real danger. You want to get both of them out? You need to make Chris see that she’s the one keeping him in chains. Not just physically, but emotionally. That baby’s a tool. She’s using it to trap him. You make him realize that, and he’ll leave with the kid.”

Matt was quiet for a moment, digesting what his father had said. “And how do we do that?”

Their father smirked again, like he was enjoying the puzzle. “Get creative. Make it so that Aaliyah’s actions speak louder than anything else. Show Chris that she’s a threat to the child’s well-being, to his own mental health. Make him understand that staying is worse than leaving. You make him see that it’s not his fault—that he didn’t destroy anything by walking away. He just has to choose.”

Nick, still by the door, spoke up. “What if he won’t leave? What if he’s too scared to do it?”

Their father’s eyes darkened, his voice hardening. “Then you drag him out. You show him the truth, or you drag him away. You don’t give him the option. You make it so that he sees his kid’s safety is more important than anything she can offer him.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “We have to make sure the kid’s safe. We can’t leave her in that house, not with Aaliyah.”

“Of course not,” their father agreed. “Get the kid out first. Make sure she’s not being used as leverage against Chris. Once you’ve got the kid, then Chris will follow.”

Nick, still staring at the door, finally spoke again. “And what about Aaliyah? You think she’s just going to let us take them?”

Their father’s smile turned almost predatory. “She’ll fight. But she’ll lose. Once you’ve made her a liability, once she’s the one standing in the way of Chris’s freedom, she’ll crumble. Chris will see it.”

Nick shook his head again, his eyes dark. “I don’t like this. It feels like we’re playing right into her hands.”

Matt turned to Nick, his expression serious. “We don’t have a choice. We have to do whatever it takes.”

Their father’s voice was cold as he looked at them. “Just make sure you do it before she finds another way to trap him. You’ve got one shot. Don’t screw it up.”

With that, Matt stood up, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Nick, already at the door, didn’t speak. His anger simmered just beneath the surface, his mind racing with the thought of Chris—of his brother, trapped and hurting. The pieces were falling into place, but the plan felt just as fragile as the man who had helped them devise it.

Their father’s voice cut through the silence as they made their way toward the door. “And don’t forget your promise,” he called after them, the smirk in his voice still present. “My chocolate and socks.”

Matt shot a quick look at Nick, but neither of them responded. They had more important things to focus on now.

They were going to get Chris and the kid out. And nothing was going to stop them.

ㅤㅤ

   -------˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹ 𐦍 ˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹-------

Chris sat on the closed toilet lid, head down, shoulders curled in, as he dabbed at the fresh cut on his lip. His hands were shaking, and the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball stung like hell, but he barely registered the pain.

His body hurt in a way he was getting too used to—his ribs ached from where Aaliyah had slammed him against the wall, his cheek throbbed from the slap that had come right after. But the worst part was how predictable it all was.

He should’ve known.

The moment Aaliyah had snatched his phone off the counter at dinner and tried to unlock it, he should’ve known. When she realized the password was still changed—when her face darkened and her jaw clenched—he should’ve just braced himself.

“You really don’t learn, do you?” she had whispered, voice eerily calm. And then the first slap landed.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the memory was still raw. The second she had him on the ground, she wasn’t just hitting him—she was teaching him a lesson. That was the worst part.

He didn’t even argue anymore.

Didn’t fight back.

Didn’t ask why.

Just tried to protect his head and waited for her to be done.

Now, here he was, trying to clean himself up like it was just another part of his routine.

“Daddy?”

The small voice jolted him.

Chris lifted his head and saw Adriana standing in the doorway, her tiny feet bare against the bathroom tile, her favorite stuffed bear clutched in one arm. She looked sleepy, but her face twisted with concern as she stepped closer.

“You okay?”

Chris quickly forced himself upright, wiping the blood off his lip with the back of his hand. “Yeah, baby, I’m okay.” His voice was hoarse, and his smile felt weak.

Adriana didn’t look convinced. She climbed up onto the counter beside the sink, crossing her legs and watching him like she knew something was wrong but didn’t know the right words to ask.

After a moment, she dug into her pajama pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled Band-Aid. It was one of her princess ones—pink, covered in tiny crowns and castles.

She held it out to him. “I help?”

Chris swallowed the lump in his throat. He managed a small, tired chuckle. “Yeah, you can help.”

Adriana grinned and unwrapped the Band-Aid with intense focus before carefully sticking it to his arm—nowhere near an actual injury, but he let her do it anyway.

She hummed to herself, gently patting the Band-Aid into place.

Then, without looking up, she said in the most casual, innocent voice:

“Will my husband hit me when I’m big, too?”

Chris froze.

His stomach dropped so fast he thought he might be sick.

His hands went slack on the counter, and the antiseptic wipe tumbled to the floor.

“W-What?” His voice cracked.

Adriana swung her legs, completely unbothered. “Mommy says when you don’t listen, you get boo-boos.” She tapped the Band-Aid on his arm lightly, like she was patching up a scraped knee. “So… when I don’t listen, will my husband give me boo-boos, too?”

Chris’s entire world tilted.

His chest tightened painfully, and he struggled to find anything to say.

His mind raced—back to his own childhood, to the nights when his mother would hold a washcloth to her split lip, whispering that it was okay, that it was just what love looked like.

Back to the time she sat on his bed when he was thirteen, brushing his hair back and saying, Don’t ever end up like me.

Back to her lying cold and still on the kitchen floor, blood pooling beneath her head.

Chris clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. He forced himself to take a deep breath and steady his voice.

“No.” His throat felt tight. “No, baby. That’s not supposed to happen.”

Adriana frowned slightly, tilting her head. “But it happens to you.”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut for a second before opening them again. He gently cupped her small face in his hands, forcing himself to keep his voice steady.

“Listen to me, okay?” His hands were shaking. “No one is ever allowed to hurt you. Not your husband, not your friends, not anyone. If someone ever lays a hand on you, you leave. You don’t stay. You hear me?”

Adriana blinked at him, tiny fingers gripping his wrists.

“Even if they say sorry?”

Chris’s heart shattered.

He could barely breathe past the lump in his throat.

“Especially then.”

She stared at him for a long moment before nodding, as if filing the information away. Then she reached out and pressed another Band-Aid to his wrist.

Chris let her, swallowing past the overwhelming wave of emotion crashing over him.

He had to get out.

Not just for himself.

But for her.

Back at the House

Chris sat on the edge of the bathtub, his shirt off, dabbing at the fresh bruises blooming across his ribs. His movements were slow, careful. Every breath stung.

Adriana sat on the closed toilet lid beside him, her little hands fumbling with the bandages. She had insisted on “helping,” her tiny fingers gripping the gauze too tightly, twisting it in the wrong direction. Chris winced but didn’t stop her.

She was concentrating hard, her tongue peeking out slightly as she worked.

“There,” she said, patting his arm when she finished wrapping the bandage around his side. “All better.”

Chris forced a smile. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Adriana beamed at him, proud of her work. But then her face scrunched up in thought, and she tilted her head.

“Mommy says you’re bad,” she said suddenly.

Chris stiffened.

Adriana swung her feet where they dangled off the toilet lid, kicking them absentmindedly. “She says you don’t listen, and that’s why she has to fix you.”

Chris swallowed, his throat dry.

“She—” Adriana hesitated, her little fingers twisting the edge of her dress. “She says that when I get older, I have to make sure my husband listens too. Or else he’ll be bad.”

Chris felt something deep in his chest crack.

His daughter wasn’t even six. And Aaliyah had already planted the seeds.

His stomach turned violently.

“Adri,” he said softly, forcing himself to keep his voice even. “That’s not true.”

Adriana frowned, confused. “But Mommy—”

“Mommy is wrong.” The words were out before he could stop them, and his heart pounded as he realized what he had just said. He had never openly gone against Aaliyah in front of Adriana.

But he couldn’t let her believe this.

“Love isn’t about hurting people,” he said, his voice shaking. “And if someone ever tells you it is, they’re lying.”

Adriana studied him, her little brows furrowed. “But Mommy loves you.”

Chris felt his breath hitch.

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

He had no idea how to answer that.

A heavy silence filled the bathroom. Adriana watched him, waiting for an explanation he wasn’t sure how to give.

Finally, she scooted closer, resting her small head against his arm.

“I don’t want to be mean to my husband,” she said quietly.

Chris shut his eyes.

God, what was he doing?

He placed a gentle hand on Adriana’s back, holding her close.

“You won’t be,” he whispered.

But deep down, he wondered if that was a promise he could keep.

ㅤㅤ

   -------˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹ 𐦍 ˖⁺. ༶ ❤︎ ⋆˙⊹-------

Matt sat in the back of the car, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat, eyes staring out of the window at the blur of passing streetlights. The drive home from the prison felt longer than it had any right to, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. The only sound was the soft hum of the car and the occasional sigh from Nick, who was still processing the meeting with their father.

They had no choice but to act now. And they were running out of time.

Matt couldn’t hold it in anymore. He pulled out his phone, dialed the number he’d been avoiding for years, and waited.

The line rang for what felt like an eternity before Justin’s voice came through, rough but familiar.

“Yeah?”

“Justin, it’s Matt,” he said, his voice strained, his throat tight. “I… I need your help. We need your help.”

There was a long pause before Justin responded, his voice low, but Matt could hear the concern there. “What’s going on, Matt? What’s wrong?”

Matt glanced at Nick, who had been focused on the road, his expression unreadable. He took a breath, then started speaking, his words tumbling out in an urgent rush.

“It’s Chris, Justin. He’s—he’s with someone. Someone who’s… she’s hurting him, man. She’s controlling him, isolating him. And he won’t leave her. He thinks he has to stay. He thinks it’s for his daughter, Adriana. But she’s got him twisted. She’s manipulating him.”

A beat of silence followed on the other end of the line. “What the hell are you talking about?” Justin finally asked, his voice sharp.

Matt’s pulse quickened. He knew this wouldn’t be easy, but he had to tell Justin the truth. “Her name’s Aaliyah. She’s been messing with his head for years. Cutting him off from everyone, including me and Nick. You… you haven’t talked to him in six years, Justin. And it’s all because of her. She’s convinced him that we’re the problem, that we’re the ones dragging him down. But he’s stuck, man. He’s deep in it, and now she’s started… it’s gotten worse. She’s been beating him, controlling him, and he doesn’t even see it.”

Nick tensed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He glanced at Matt in the rearview mirror, eyes searching for any sign of hope, but Matt just shook his head, his focus still on the phone call.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Justin said, his voice quieter now. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he reach out?”

“Because she made him believe that if he cut everyone out, things would be better,” Matt said, the words bitter in his mouth. “She made him believe we were all toxic, that we were the ones who caused him pain. He cut you off, Justin. He cut all of us off. And now… now it’s gotten worse. He won’t leave her because he thinks if he does, it’ll hurt Adriana. He thinks if he stays, he can protect her. But it’s a lie. And it’s destroying him.”

The line went silent again, and Matt could hear Justin’s heavy breathing on the other end. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of everything Matt had just said.

“Fuck,” Justin muttered. “I didn’t even know. I didn’t know he was like this. After everything that happened with Mom… why didn’t he come to me? Why didn’t he come to any of us?”

“I don’t know, man,” Matt replied, frustration creeping into his voice. “But we’re running out of time. We need you to talk to him. We need you to get through to him, Justin. He won’t listen to us anymore. He won’t listen to me.” His voice broke slightly as he added, “He’s slipping away.”

Justin’s voice softened. “I know. I know, Matt. It’s just—” He paused, then let out a frustrated breath. “What the hell happened? Why the hell is he letting this happen to him?”

Matt closed his eyes for a moment, his mind flashing back to their mother’s death. To Chris’s testimony, to how they’d all been broken by it, in one way or another.

“He thinks he’s the problem, Justin,” Matt said, the words coming out heavy, soaked in guilt. “He thinks if he just does better, if he just tries harder, she’ll stop. But she won’t. She’s destroying him. And we need to save him.”

Justin was silent for a long time, then, “So what do you want me to do? What the hell can I do now, after six years of nothing?”

Matt leaned forward, his breath catching as he spoke the words that had been weighing on him for weeks. “You need to talk to him, Justin. He’s still your brother. He needs you now. He won’t listen to me, but he might listen to you. Just—please. He’s drowning.”

On the other end of the line, Justin was silent, processing the magnitude of what Matt had said. Then he spoke, quieter now, his tone filled with something like resignation. “I don’t know if I can fix this, Matt. I don’t know if I can fix him. If you guys can’t get through to him, what hope do I have.”

“You don’t have to fix him,” Matt said, his voice tight with emotion. “You just have to make him see that there’s a way out. You have to make him see that he can escape. That he’s worth more than this.”

Nick broke the silence, his voice soft from the front seat. “We need all the help we can get, Justin.”

There was a long pause before Justin finally responded, his voice firm but laced with concern. “Alright. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to him.”

Matt’s heart dropped in relief. “Thank you, man. Just… just talk to him. Help him see what he’s letting happen.”

Justin exhaled slowly. “I’ll do what I can, it probably won’t change anything…but i’ll try.”

As Matt ended the call, the car settled into a new kind of silence. Nick drove on, his focus back on the road, but the air was different now. For the first time in a long time, there was hope—a fragile, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, they could save Chris before it was too late.

One thing about Justin was that out of all of them, he was the most determined. If he had an exam he had to get an A+, if he was doing sport he had to get the gold medal, if he was making dinner, it would be a five course meal worth triple the price of the ingredients and right now if it came to making his brother realise situation he was in they all knew Justin would go to the end of the earth to make sure it happens

A/N:

[martinblackwoodhater]

currently listening to s5 (last episode I listened to was 169) and...? wtf...???? why is martin highkey an asshole I'm sorry but your boyfriend is battling with a tragic loss/guilt/mourning for a world that he killed and you're all trapped in its rotting corpse/GUILT and you're just??? telling him to fucking MAN UP??? wtf is wrong with you oml also notice how when Helen says "such devotion; you really don't deserve it. But of course, you already know that! :)" line, martin offers NO COMFORT AT ALL/WHATSOEVER. NO "it's rotten work/not to me, not if it's you" JUST. SILENCE. WTF and THEN instead of helping his bf out with the fact that he's slowly losing his sense of humanity and literally just KILLED someone and is ASHAMED of it he encourages him? despite probably knowing that that's unhealthy and can/will have a detrimental effect on his wellbeing? and then he has the fucking audacity to constantly sound like he's the victim here - I don't even know how he does it, he's just CONTANTLY FUCK WHINING about whatever bullshit minor inconvenience he encounters. I'm so fucking sick of this this is not okay. That + the fact he's never actually been nice? past maybe, what s1? if ever? like sure he was a cute character at first, endearing, but he's just a fucking asshole if I'm completely honest. anyway do with this what you will. Not a big fan of martin and the turn his character has taken s4-5. also the fetishisation of said turn - "murder knife man who will hurt those who wronged his bf 💕" NO bbg he's just being a complete fucking BASTARD who isn't there to support his bf and is instead indulging in his own little victim complex. there is nothing sexy about being a bad boyfriend and inciting your partner to murder (even if it will probably ruin them) + also being jealous while you're at it like girl. girl no yeah this is a lot. thoughts?

omg literally like there is a line between 'speaking up for yourself' and just genuinely being like outright a bad person and martin has like fully spat on that line and torn it out of the ground. like people are so willing to overlook genuinely toxic and abusive behaviours from martin just so they can force it into their little "cute apocalypse gays 😜🥰" traits and project their own 'self hatred' and 'mommy issues' onto him.

and obviously there's nothing wrong with portraying unhealthy gay relationships in fiction, in fact it's good to have that scope of representation obviously if it's done well, but the problem is that any problems in their relationship are just largely overlooked by the writing and pretty much completely overlooked by the fandom.

martins so very aggressive and pushy etc to his mourning boyfriend, but when the time comes where he could actually put that drive at all to defending or comforting the man he loves in any capacity whatsoever, he just doesn't, and it's such a weird choice to make for him??

like this is what's supposed to be his boyfriend and the only person he really has left in the world being told that he doesn't actually deserve love or whatever, and only feeding into Jon's own internal conflict ((mostly over loss of his own humanity which also i NEED to talk about how martin is awful and absolutely fuels that for him but that's a tangent for another day)) and just why WOULDN'T he say anything against that.

like that's not even the thing that a good partner/friend would need to step in on or at least comfort him on after, that's just the sort of thing that any decent acquaintance or person whatsoever should at least say SOMETHING to, and to have just nothing in response from martin is absolutely a weird decision.

[strewwwberry]

Omg I'm listening to my Spotify liked songs and evil by melanie Martinez came on and I stg it is so shen Jiu coded

HEAR ME OUT

literally the very first line "you called the other day, I stayed away"

- who does that sounds like 🤨 QIJIU 79, sounds like shen Jiu when Yue qingyuan (not Yue qi tho, there's a difference) comes to see him literally ever

"Throwing all your stuff into the abyss

Now the role is reversed and told you I'm a switch"

Multiple connections here, this could be sj during qiu household where he "threw all the men into the abyss (the fire/killed them)" and "reversed the roles", as in he is standing over them now

It could also mean how he literally threw Luo binghe into the abyss and how when lbh came out of the abyss the "roles" where switched yet again as sj gets tortured by lbh for binghes abuse

And actually going off of that, the roles are reversed could also be how he who was once an abused slave, ex demonic cultivator mostly against his will (he was coerced into coming with wu yanzi and was just used the entire time) and a hated man for being unable to express himself, to the exact thing he hated more then himself, someone in power abusing those weaker like it is their right to do so

"No I never knew what it meant

what it meant to be content with you"

- slave traders, qiu jianluo, and wu yanzi again

"Everything I expressed, I professed

It never quite made it through"

- ignored for being lesser then in the eyes of those around him (take this as you will, slave traders, qiu household, wu yanzi, as a disciple, or maybe even as a peak Lord, and if nothing else, he at least believes it to be so)

"Said "it's all in my head" all in my head

Whenever I spoke my truth

No, I won't defend you to all my friends

This time, I refuse"

Same as before with the being ignored and abused, but also comes into his belief that no matter what he says it won't make a difference as that's what it was like for him all the way from birth to wu yanzi, and maybe even as a disciple but we don't have a canon on that,

"I won't defend you to all my friends" I might be pushing it but it could be a third person perspective of himself where he perhaps unknowingly tries to defend himself as not being the "beast" he believes himself to be but it to be somebody else (Luo binghe, projection).

I've can do more but I'll leave it here for now lol

If you want me to continue let me know hehe